


Hermione Granger and the Old Mystery

by Wrathernice



Series: The Mirror's Keeper [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Post Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 02:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8083348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathernice/pseuds/Wrathernice
Summary: Hermione Granger has returned to Hogwarts to teach after finishing her seventh year post-Battle. Surprisingly, so has the mysterious Asher, who had transferred from her school in America in their fourth year. Despite the fact that the other woman had been placed in Gryffindor, there is little Hermione knows about her, and she has decided that now is the time to find out just who, exactly, the new Potions professor is. She finds out more than she was expecting... This story is a re-post (with important edits), originally posted elsewhere. This may be a completed story, but I'm in the middle of writing the sequel, and feedback is always appreciated! Does it suck? Is it just sort of okay? Was something good? Let me know!





	1. Prologue

This day did not start like most did during summer vacation for Asher Erised.

Most days, her father woke her with a gentle shake and a kiss on the forehead and a teasing, "Good morning, Blessed One!" She would swim up from her slumber to the scent of bacon and coffee, wiping the sleep from her eyes and blinking furiously at the daylight streaming through her windows. She would stagger down the narrow stone steps that led to the kitchen, then sit heavily on her favorite oaken chair, attempting to wake up as her father served her a plate of eggs and bacon slices- though sometimes it was biscuits with gravy and grapefruit- a glass of orange juice, and a mug of coffee. Her mother was sometimes present, sometimes not. It depended on her "moods." They would sit at the table, casually munching on their breakfast, and her father would open the mysteriously appropriated local paper and look for the most entertaining or interesting Muggle news story before reading it aloud. Then they would go to his lab and he would teach her about a new potion or ingredient, and after her head felt full to bursting, she would be turned free for the day to do whatever she pleased. It was the typical day in Asher's household, and she found it vastly comforting.

But today she woke slowly, alone, opening her sand-filled eyelids and finding that the light didn't hurt her eyes. After careful examination of the windows, parting the blinds to look out on the snowy, mountainous terrain, Asher determined that it was noon or after, and that her father had let her sleep in, which was unusual; he was punctilious about her lessons. After all, she needed to know about potions, especially since puberty had attacked.

Asher stretched and set her feet on the worn wooden floorboards, which were still cold, even partway through the daylight hours, and recoiled at the chill. She quickly located her slippers and nudged her feet inside, found her thick terrycloth robe, and shrugged into it as she made her way down the stairs.

The second thing that struck her as odd was the lack of warmth. Her father usually had a steady fire going this time of day; he had to rekindle the embers from the night before to make his coffee, which was his top priority first thing in the morning. When she reached the kitchen, Asher realized that the fire had been allowed to burn out completely, and the hearth held only ashes and fragments of logs from the day before. She even held a hand over it to check: no heat. It was at this moment that she realized something was profoundly wrong.

Asher examined the kitchen table for a note saying they had gone out, but there wasn't one. If they went somewhere, they always left a note. Her sense of unease deepened. Grabbing the old-fashioned iron poker from the base of the fireplace, she wished she had taken her wand from her bedside table. Underage witches weren't permitted to use magic outside of school unless under supervision of a parent, and her dad made her feel so safe she had gotten into the habit of leaving it in her room unless she left the house without him. However, something was telling her she might need it.

But Asher didn't dare go back; she felt a sense of danger, and her instinct told her that if she went back, whatever was threatening her would certainly notice. She had to catch whatever it was by surprise. She crept through the kitchen, mindful of the open doorway leading to the cozy living room, and did a quick scan. No movement; nothing out of place. The house was silent.

She continued through the second doorway, which opened onto a hallway that led to her parents' room, the guest bathroom, and the door to her dad's underground laboratory. The bathroom door was wide open, and since the door had to be halted by a doorstop to be prevented from hitting the wall, she knew it was empty. The basement door was fastened on the outside by a padlock only her father could open. He secured it every night before bed and whenever he left it, so she knew there was no one down there now.

Asher's eyes fell on the door to her parents' bedroom, which was closed. Memories of hiding under their covers between two of them on stormy nights came to her, because when she was a child, she had regarded it as the safest place in the house. She approached it with a heavy feeling in her limbs and a light sensation in her head. She felt that her head was several feet behind her body, resisting its movement and only kept going by the fact that it was attached to her neck, which felt very tight. She reached for the doorknob, but her hand didn't seem to want to grasp it, so she paused to listen. Beyond the whisper of the trees in the wind outside, she heard nothing.

Gingerly, Asher closed her fingers around the metal knob, then slowly turned it, her muscles seeming to turn to shifting sand. There was no resistance to the movement, but she winced when the mechanism inside made a jarring click-thunk. Deciding that her cover was blown anyway, she wrenched the knob the rest of the way and shoved the door open, bursting through the doorway.

After a short inspection for movement, Asher's eyes drifted to the bed, where her parents were. Her mother lay curled around her father, black curly locks tickling his neck and shoulders, dead asleep and breathing evenly. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the twilight created by the drawn curtains, and she looked content.

She slid her gaze to her father. His features were slack under his straight brown hair, his eyes open and sightless. His back was to his wife, and his shoulders seemed collapsed, his arms slightly bent where they had fallen to the side of the bed. A grey pallor had come over what Asher could see of his skin, and he wasn't moving, not even to breathe. She felt the urge to run to his side, and then the urge to run out of the house, but she was frozen, the poker in her hand forgotten, unable to act in the face of the indisputable truth before her.

Asher's dad was dead, and looking at her mother, calm and asleep and curled around her father's body, she wondered... Pieces of conversations flew to mind, hints and evasions, forming a picture in her mind. Her father, exclaiming, "She can control herself, I'm helping her!" to his doubtful brother, who so rarely wrote or called. And her uncle replying, "She's a time bomb, Darius. You know what she wants, and she can take it at the drop of a hat. The fact that you are man and wife means nothing." The meeting with the Headmaster of Asher's prospective school- only half of which she had been allowed to attend- where her father had to present a case of why she should be allowed. She had never examined the two memories together before, and now it seemed that having to persuade a Headmaster to accept a student in a private meeting was not such a normal occurrence. Was her mother a bad witch? Was this what they were afraid Asher would become?

It was a devastating thought for any person. But for a fourteen-year-old, and more importantly, for Asher Erised, it would become a curse.


	2. Old and New

Professor McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, stood in the entryway to the Great Hall, watching the students file in. Next to her stood the Professor of Transfiguration, who was watching them as carefully as her colleague for misbehavior. "You know, Minerva, it almost seems normal by now, to be a teacher instead of a student," said the professor.

McGonagall nodded solemnly. "You do get used to it." She smiled faintly at greetings from some students old enough to remember when she had been Head of Gryffindor House, instead of Headmistress. She watched them pass, her gaze tinged by a slight sadness. "It's finally beginning to feel like the world and the school are back in order again, all these first years who are too young to remember much about the War. They seem innocent and care-free once more."

Both of them had plenty of memories of that time when Voldemort and his supporters had attacked the school, having both fought against him in what later became known as the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Well," McGonagall said in a much brisker tone than before, "that does seem to be all of them. If you would please retrieve the first years and bring them in with the Hat and the stool."

Professor Hermione Granger smiled, recalling when she had been Sorted: She and the Hat had had a lively debate about the merits of the Houses it had suggested, which had lasted for over a minute before it had placed her in Gryffindor. "Of course, Minerva," she said, then walked to the front door to wait for the knock.

The Sorting went off without a hitch, except for "Genus, Janice," who pouted when the Hat put her in Hufflepuff and refused to leave the stool until it had changed its mind. "But my mum was a Ravenclaw," she whined as Professor Sprout led her rather impatiently to the Hufflepuff table.

There was the usual appreciative "Ooh!" at the sudden appearance of food, for which McGonagall gave the signal with little preamble. They all stuffed themselves, even the professors, and Hermione gratefully took in the wide variety of dishes the Head Table had the privilege of sampling.

Finally, McGonagall signaled for silence. "Quiet, please!" she said over the noise in the Great Hall, waving her wand, which was giving off gold sparks. "I am Professor McGonagall, your headmistress here at Hogwarts. I have some start-of-term announcements to make." Slowly, the conversations died out, and when she had their full attention, she pulled a short, rolled parchment from inside her robes. "First, I would like to emphasize that first-years are not permitted to own their own broomsticks." She shot a pointed look at the Slytherin table, where one student apparently had attempted to flout the rule. "However, a generous donation of ten Firebolts has been made to the school." There was much cheering and clapping at this. "Also, Mr. Filch has asked that on return from Hogsmeade, all students allow their bags to be searched-" the cheers turned to groans- "because of the unfortunate incident last term with the owl."

Hermione, rule-abiding though she was, had to stifle a giggle. One of the owls from the Hogsmeade Post Office had smuggled itself into the castle inside a student's bag and proceeded to run amok in the Ravenclaw common room, landing on heads and relieving itself on Professor Flitwick. She pretended to be looking at McGonagall attentively, then noticed a face at the table that had not been there when she sat, a face she recognized.

Asher Erised, former classmate of hers after transferring from the Yorke Academy of Sorcery in the States their fourth year, had appeared, and was now sitting in the chair usually claimed by the Potions professor.

"Finally, I would like to welcome our new Potions master, Professor Erised, who will be taking over from Professor Petalston," McGonagall said, gesturing to Asher, who stood and nodded politely to light applause. Hermione noticed that many of the boys, and even Professor Flitwick, were eyeing her rather hungrily. "She will be teaching from a different classroom than before, so make sure to go to the correct dungeon." Asher nodded again and smiled faintly, but said nothing as she sat back down.

Hermione gazed down the table with surprise. She hadn't known about Jean Petalston leaving, or who would be replacing her. She hadn't seen Asher since they had graduated. She remembered vividly the first time she'd seen her, in her fourth year.

* * *

**_Hogwarts, Hermione's Fourth Year_ **

Professor McGonagall had called for the class to be quiet as soon as everyone had filed in to the Transfigurations classroom. She glanced around the classroom, finally silencing the especially talkative students, who were speculating about the Triwizard Tournament, which Dumbledore had announced at the Welcoming Feast. "Welcome back, everyone. If you would please open your books to page eight, we will be attempting to transfigure mice-"

She stopped speaking abruptly at the opening of the classroom door. Everyone craned their necks to see who would dare interrupt her lesson, but it was Dumbledore. With him was an ivory-skinned, black-haired, serious-looking girl their age who Harry and Ron didn't know, but they were drawn to her at once. Hermione cleared her throat loudly, looking peeved- she noticed that several of the other male students were staring at her as well.

Dumbledore ushered the girl, who was wearing pristine Hogwarts robes and carrying a brand-new Transfiguration textbook, into the classroom, winked at McGonagall, and left. The professor cleared her throat, looking for just a moment as if she was nervous. "Everyone," she began, looking round at the students to assure she had their attention. "This is Asher Erised. She has transferred from her school in the United States." There were murmurs around the classroom; who had ever heard of a transfer student at Hogwarts? "She has been placed with Gryffindor house, and will be attending all classes with Gryffindor." There was more whispering. What about the Sorting Hat?

Hermione's eyes narrowed. Unless she had been mistaken, Professor McGonagall had just said the girl's last name was Erised. She had heard that before: Harry had told her about the Mirror of Erised during their first year, and how it showed your heart's desire when you stood in front of it. She glanced at Harry, seeing that he had been jolted out of his trance by the name, making the connection. Ron's face, however, had gone a bit misty. None of the other students knew about the mirror, so it was lost on them.

"Ms. Erised," McGonagall said softly, "I've placed an extra mouse at that desk there, so if you would just have a seat, we can continue with our lesson. Page eight, please." Hermione stared at the Professor. Usually she spoke briskly and efficiently, but she had sounded almost gentle. What was so special about this new girl? She watched Asher sit, alone, with her back to Hermione's table, a row ahead and to the right. She had opened her textbook and was shuffling through the pages. Her face had been a bit round, Hermione recalled, and just on the pretty side of plain. Her wavy black hair hung above her shoulders. She hadn't made eye contact with anyone, but that didn't stop everyone from staring at her, the boys especially. Hermione kicked Ron under the table as Professor McGonagall started speaking again, stifling a smile at his startled reaction, and resolved to do some research on the American school when she could get to the library next.

After they were dismissed, the boys in the class, including Ron, had all gone up to her to say hello. They seemed oddly intent on the task, puffing themselves up and introducing themselves pompously. Ron had tried to give her a winning smile, but Asher had only raised an eyebrow and pointed out in a flat American accent that he had a bit of egg in his teeth.

"D'you think she's related to whoever made the Mirror?" Harry asked as they waited for Ron outside the door, having been curious enough about her name to resist the urge to go and greet her and consult Hermione instead.

"I think that's more than likely," Hermione said. "It's not a common name, is it? It certainly won't have slipped past Dumbledore. I'll go to the library and see what I can find out about it. I can't remember the name of the American school, so I'll look that up, too. I think it's located in New York."

"Where?" Harry asked, not having read much about other countries. The last time he had read anything about the United States was before he had come to Hogwarts, when he had gone to a Muggle school.

"Oh, honestly, Harry, it's only the largest city in the States," Hermione said impatiently. "Millions live there." She tapped a foot. "Where's Ron?"

She was answered a moment later, as they saw him trailing Asher out of the Transfiguration classroom. She seemed to be studiously ignoring him, walking quickly with her books gripped to her chest. He seemed content to keep following, but Harry grabbed him by the arm. "Where're you going? It's time for lunch."

Ron looked at Harry as if he'd never met him, then said distractedly, "I've just got to make sure she makes it back to the common room alright."

"Really, Ron," Hermione said, then stepped firmly on his foot.

"OW!" Ron winced and looked at both of them, recognition on his face. "What'd you do that for?"

"Come on," Harry said, hiding a grin. "We'll have a chance to talk to her after classes are over, but I'm hungry. Let's eat." At the mention of food, Ron perked up and followed the two of them to the Great Hall.

Ron wasn't the only one who appeared to be bewitched by Asher Erised. The news of a transfer, highly unusual, had spread quickly among the students, and when she appeared in the Hall for lunch, sitting alone at the very end of the Gryffindor table, away from the rest, whispers started up.

"-hear she got kicked out-"

"But Dumbledore let her in, she _can't_ have done anything too bad-"

"-noticed how she doesn't talk to anyone?"

"Probably because her accent is funny."

Hermione had already gone to the library and back, and was sitting at the table with no fewer than four new books, two of which were about other wizarding schools. "It says here that the Yorke Academy of Sorcery has gotten so big in recent years that it had to increase the number of Houses—which they call Clans- from five to seven, and they had to magically expand the school," she said with interest, pointing at a passage from _A Brief History of Prominent Wizarding Schools: Then and Now._ "I wonder which House she was in?"

"She was probably in a House by herself," Fred quipped. "She doesn't seem to even notice that there are other students here."

"If everyone was staring at you and whispering behind your back, you would probably ignore them, too," Harry said pointedly, knowing full well how it felt. Fred conceded the point with a nod and a mumble, as he had stuffed his mouth full of treacle, and munched on it unconcernedly, leaning back over the diagram he and George were working on. Hermione noticed that George's eyes kept going to Asher's end of the table when he thought no one was looking.

The other classes with Asher that day were much the same: the boys gazing at her hopefully; Hermione making annoyed noises- "She's not even that pretty!"; Asher speaking only to the professors, who didn't seem surprised at all to see a new student joining their classes at the beginning of Fourth Year.

After classes were over, they headed back to the common room. "She didn't ride the train to school, or go to the Feast, or get Sorted," Harry was saying. "The professors are acting like it's not strange for her to just.. show up for the first day of classes."

"Well, they probably knew about her coming," Hermione said. "Dumbledore would tell everyone. I mean, he had to be the one to approve the transfer." She was wondering what kind of circumstances would cause her family to move to Europe. Asher herself certainly didn't seem happy about it- she hadn't smiled all day. "How are they going to fit her bed in our dormitory? It's going to be a bit cramped with six of us."

As they approached the painting of the Fat Lady, they saw McGonagall walking with Asher to the common room as well. "Ah, Ms. Granger," the Professor said, waving her over. "Ms. Erised, this is Hermione Granger. She's an excellent student, and if you have any questions about your classes, she will be able to answer them. She's also in Fourth Year."

This was the first opportunity Hermione had had to talk to Asher, and she stuck out her hand, her face a bit pink at the compliment. "Hello, nice to meet you," she said briskly.

Asher extended her own hand cautiously, shook strongly, and nodded. "Asher," she said shortly, though not as if she were cross. Her face was solemn.

"And this is Ronald Weasley, and Harry Potter," McGonagall continued, pointing at each of them in turn. They started to hold their hands out to shake, Ron looking hopeful, but Asher's hand remained firmly at her side, and she only nodded briefly at them both. She showed no reaction to Harry's name, and said nothing. Ron's face fell and he cleared his throat, suddenly becoming very interested in the border of the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Now, if you'll come this way, Ms. Erised," McGonagall said, muttering the password at the Fat Lady, "I'll just show you around the dormitory and to your room."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered through the hole behind the portrait behind Asher and McGonagall, watching as the Professor led her not, as they'd expected, to the girls' dormitories, but to a small, dimly lit hall that held a disused storage closet and a lavatory.

"Wonder why they're going back there," Ron said curiously.

"Dunno," said Harry. "Maybe they're getting extra stuff for her spot in the girls' room."

Hermione split off from them to make a quick trip up to the room she shared with the other girls in fourth year to deposit a couple of books in her trunk. When she came back down, her face held a small frown. She hurried over to Ron and Harry, who had gotten out their Wizard Chess sets, and glanced around. "There's no extra bed in the dormitory," she said quietly, not wanting Asher to hear her.

"What d'you mean? Where's she going to sleep?" Ron asked, pausing in his arrangement of the pieces. "I don't go there, idiot!" exclaimed one of his rooks, shaking a fist. "Oh, shut up," Ron replied with a scowl, moving him to the corner.

"I think she's staying in that old closet," Harry said, his eyes on something behind Ron. They turned to see Asher emerging from the hallway, her robes gone, dressed instead in a pair of holey black corduroy trousers and a faded orange t-shirt that proclaimed "Rock Lobster '99!"

"She gets her own room?" Ron moaned enviously, moving a pawn forward. "Wish I was that lucky." Harry voiced his agreement.

Hermione remained silent, watching as Asher sat in a far corner and pulled out her books to study, suddenly feeling suspicious. Before the other girl would notice her looking, she pulled a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ out, idly reading the headline: _Dangerous Fugitive Captured in Egypt After Weeks Long Pursuit_. She flicked a final glance up at Asher before settling down to read. There was something off about the girl, and she had vowed that she would find out what it was.

 

* * *

The suspicion came back to her as she sat down the table from Asher, inspecting the newly appointed Potions professor. As usual, she wasn't saying much, though McGonagall spoke to her from time to time, and she answered in a friendly manner. Her round face had lengthened and thinned a bit, and her wavy black hair was pinned, much like McGonagall's, in a neat bun at the back of her neck. Her robes were cobalt blue and immaculate. She wore little jewelry, and her hands were scarred around the palms. She looked weary, with hints of circles under her greyish, hazel eyes.

Hermione caught her own name mentioned in their conversation. "Granger took my place as Transfigurations professor, you two can catch up." Not like they had much to catch up on- they hadn't really been friends, despite being in the same year. Asher had spent most of her time studying or hiding in her room, and had typically avoided social situations with the other Gryffindors.

After the War, Hermione had returned to Hogwarts for her final year of schooling, as had Asher, indicating that she, too, had been out of school during what was supposed to be their seventh year. What had she been doing all that time? Why had the professors accepted it as a matter of course, instead of being suspicious at her absence? Hermione's attempts to find out had been met with polite evasion.

Hermione had accepted the Transfigurations position as soon as she had graduated from Hogwarts, when she was nineteen years old. She was going to be twenty-three in a couple of weeks, and so was Asher, she assumed. Where had she gone between graduating and returning to teach? They had needed a new Potions master immediately, as Professor Petalston had only agreed to fill in for a year after Snape was killed, but had been wheedled into staying longer, as there was no one else.

There was a certain irony in Asher taking Snape's former position, she reflected. Snape had instantly hated Asher almost as much as he had hated Harry, though no one had known why. In response, Asher, unlike the other students, had stood up to him often, and though she lost uncountable points for Gryffindor that way, the other students in their House admired the way she handled him so much that they didn't mind.

Her eyes had gone unfocused while she thought, but she belatedly realized that her eyes had been on Asher. The other woman lifted an eyebrow at her as she conversed with McGonagall, who looked Hermione's way, following Asher's gaze. Hermione looked away hurriedly, flushing, and pretended to be fascinated with her plate as she hid her burning cheeks. She would speak with Asher later, on the pretense of asking after her former classmate's life and health. It would only be polite, after all.

 

 


	3. Crookshanks, the Invalid

But Hermione didn't have a chance to speak with Asher all week. Professor McGonagall had asked her to teach the semi-annual three-week elective course on Defensive Dueling, added after the War, and she spent much of her time outlining a schedule and lesson plans. Several of her students had asked for help after classes, as well, and Crookshanks' health had taken a turn for the worse in his old age, so she spent a good portion of her time searching for remedies.

It was only at the end of the week, when the greying Crookshanks had refused to even leave Hermione's bed, that she made a point to clear some time to go see Asher. She was hoping the other woman had a potion she could make for Crookshanks to help with his arthritis. The cat was happiest when he could roam about freely, and at the moment just jumping down from her bed was painful for him, much less prowling the Forbidden Forest.

Students, talking excitedly amongst themselves, were filing out of the dungeon in which Asher taught when Hermione approached, Crookshanks cradled in the crook of her arm. She supposed they had been kept late, as Hermione's class had finished twenty minutes previously. When she thought the last one had left, she tapped on the open door and stepped in.

The classroom was brightly lit with a mixture of floating candles and globes filled with bright blue flames like the kind Hermione had used to set Snape's cloak on fire in their first year, among other things. Posted on the stone walls were various brightly-colored hangings with safety tips- "Always wear gloves when handling volatile ingredients"- and between those and the cheerily flickering light, it hardly felt like a dungeon at all.

Asher was sitting behind her desk examining a stack of what looked like essays. She raised her eyes when Hermione stepped closer, then put her quill down. "Professor," she said politely. "What did you need?" It was always a shock to hear an American accent at Hogwarts, considering the school was filled with Welsh, British, Scottish, and Irish students and teachers. Asher enunciated precisely, but with soft edges on typically harsh sounds. "Ah, Crookshanks." She gave him a quick once-over, then a corner of her mouth twisted. "He doesn't look as if he feels well." Hermione noted that there was a faint British sound to her accent now, as if she'd been in the country too long to resist.

"Yes, he's got arthritis," Hermione said, placing him gently on the desk. Asher reached out a hand for him to sniff, but he surprised them by arching his back and spitting at her. "Crookshanks!" Hermione admonished, picking him up before he could lunge at the Potions professor. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Oh, that's alright," Asher said dismissively, smiling down at the orange tabby. "Animals don't much like me, I'm afraid." She stood, coming around the desk and bending a bit to examine his joints. "You were hoping I knew of a potion that would help him?"

"Yes, please," Hermione said gratefully, watching the cat closely to make sure he wouldn't swipe at Asher's face. "I know they have to be adjusted somewhat for animals, sometimes. Perhaps a Stiffness Solution..."

Asher shook her head. "That one works only for females, when it comes to animals. Actually, I studied that potion for quite some time, attempting to find out why, but had to interrupt my studies to come and teach. Once things settle down, I'm sure I can get back to it. Now, for him.." She strode over to a scarred, overworked bookshelf behind her desk that looked as if it would collapse under the weight. Books were two deep on its shelves and more had been stacked on top of those. "If I combined a Strength Potion with the antidote for a Swelling Solution..." she said distractedly, searching the shelf. There appeared to be no organization to them, but Asher found the ones she was looking for with little trouble while Hermione stared enviously at the collection.

She set two books down on the desk and flipped to the pages she needed, setting them side by side and glancing from one to another while muttering under her breath, "No, no, completely incompatible." She replaced one of the books, thought for a moment, then pulled down another, paging through it rapidly. She paused on one of the pages, flicked a glance at the other book, then gave a satisfied nod. "I should be able to fix something for him by the end of next week," she said, looking once more at Hermione, who had been holding her breath.

"Oh, good," she said with relief, burying her nose for a moment in Crookshanks' fur. "She's going to help you, so no hissing please," she said to him reprovingly. Meeting Asher's eyes once more, she asked lamely, "So how have you been?"

"Busy," Asher said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms behind her head. "I'm still working on my lesson plans. I only had a week and a half to get ready to teach. Jean quit most unexpectedly, I'm told. Something about an accidental transfiguration?" She eyed Hermione curiously; being the Transfiguration professor, she would be most likely to know.

"Er, yes.." Hermione felt her face redden. It had been her fault- for once, she had been distracted while transfiguring a quill into a snake, and the spell had rebounded off of her teakettle and hit Professor Petalston as she was walking by the classroom. "Madame Pomfrey was unable to change her back completely, and she had to go to St. Mungo's. She was rather put out."

"I can only imagine," said Asher with a suppressed laugh in her tone. "Who was behind the spell? It could only have been one of the teachers; the students weren't here yet."

Hermione's cheeks felt like they were on fire. "Er. I was practicing a spell I was hoping to add to the curriculum," she said, attempting to sound unconcerned. "But," she hurried on, hoping to avoid the embarrassment, "I'm sure she got herself sorted out. St. Mungo's gives excellent care."

But Asher had broken out laughing, her typically serious face pulled into a grin. When her usually pale cheeks contracted they gained a pink color, and a dimple showed itself at the corner of her mouth. Her multi-colored eyes practically twinkled in amusement, creasing at the corners. "You?" she giggled. "Hermione Granger, the girl who held teachers in the highest esteem, causing one of them to quit? Oh, that's good." She wiped a tear from her eye, and then noticing the look on her face, sobered up a bit. "Sorry, Hermione, but you have to admit, it's pretty ironic."

Despite her mortification, Hermione felt herself smiling: Asher's laughter was infectious. "Yes, I suppose it is," she admitted. They were both quiet for a long moment. Hermione eyed Asher, who was pulling her hair out of its bun now that she was done teaching. It was much longer than it had been when they were in school, falling past her shoulders and ending somewhere in the middle of her back. It framed her face rather nicely, Hermione thought. "So," she started, then paused for a moment. "Where did you go after Hogwarts?"

Asher looked warily at her for a moment. "After school? I did some work for the Ministry for a few months, searching the lairs of some of Voldemort's supporters for dangerous concoctions and disposing of them. Visited with my uncle a bit. Then I started research on the Stiffness Solution," she said offhandedly.

"For three years?" Hermione blurted, unable to quite stop the suspicion from seeping into her voice. She couldn't imagine, even on the most detailed of studies, how one could stay occupied with one potion for that long.

"I suppose I did some other things in between," Asher drawled. "Hardly noteworthy." Her tone was dismissive, and her expression became solemn once more.

She had always been this way, Hermione knew, disclosing little about her personal life. Hermione didn't even know why she had transferred to Hogwarts. She had been withdrawn and secretive most of their years at school, and Hermione wasn't sure whether she had had any real friends. She had gotten on alright with some of the Ravenclaws, she recalled, but they mainly had studied in the library- she wasn't sure she'd ever seen her with them anywhere else. And except for McGonagall, she hadn't seen her talking at length with any of the other teachers.

As she looked at Asher, whose expression was now aloof, she couldn't help but think that she had a secret.

"Well, thanks for your help," she said, making sure Crookshanks was secure in her arms.

"Of course," Asher said politely, then stood to escort Hermione out the door. "I'll let you know when it's been completed and tested." She shut the door gently after Hermione before she could say anything else.

_Yes_ , Hermione thought, _she's definitely hiding something_. She would write Ron and Harry about it later, she decided, and see what they remembered about Asher Erised.


	4. Conference

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in a private room in the Three Broomsticks, eating a quiet dinner. She had written to both of them asking for quick replies, but Harry had suggested they get together instead. Hermione was surprised they'd gotten her post so quickly- they were often away on Auror business, and she hadn't really expected them to reply so promptly. Harry was deputy head of their division, and Ron often forgot things as trivial as mail, especially when it was from Hermione. Since they had broken up last year, his manner towards her had fluctuated depending on his mood, the weather, and a number of other unknown qualifiers. He seemed to be alright at the moment, though, and all of them studiously avoided mentioning anything to do with relationships, except, of course, to inquire after Harry and Ginny's new baby.

When they had all finished their plates and pushed them away, Harry called down for butterbeers and looked at Hermione. "As you asked, I looked up Asher in the Ministry records I could get my hands on. There's little about her, except a brief period where she worked with The Department for Misuse of Magical Fabrications, going around neutralizing Dark potions and making antidotes for people still under the effect of Persuasion Potions." He frowned. "But when I looked at just her last name..." He hesitated, but Hermione motioned for him to continue. "You know that witch who was on the run the summer before our fourth year? The one they chased all over the world and finally caught in Egypt?"

She nodded. The first day they had met Asher there was an article about it in the paper. Then she froze. She said slowly, "Harry.. you don't mean.."

He spoke quietly. "Yeah. That was her mum. At least, probably. The name Erised isn't attached to anyone else in Ministry records. There also wasn't anything on her dad, so maybe he's dead."

"Maybe.." she said doubtfully. "But maybe he's not in our Ministry's records. Maybe he's American, and he's in theirs."

Harry nodded. "That's possible. There wasn't anything much about this woman- Marion Erised, was her name- but it said she was apprehended in September and then sent to Alcatraz. American wizard prison," he added, before Ron could ask.

Hermione sat back in her chair. If that had been Asher's mother, then no wonder she hadn't been smiling the day they had met; her capture had been all over the Prophet. It was probably why she had transferred to Hogwarts, except.. "If she came to Hogwarts after her mum went wild, then she must have had family here. But who?"

"No' all witches take their 'usbands' 'ame when they 'arry," Ron said through a mouth full of butterbeer. He swallowed, then continued, "Some of them are feminists, or whatever."

Hermione looked at Ron as if he'd suddenly told them he was disowning the Chudley Cannons. Ron was usually quite oblivious to-- well, anything involving social movements, which was one of the numerous reasons they had split. "That's true.." she said slowly. "So maybe her father had a different name. But what was it?"

"Y'know, I heard a conversation between her and Dumbledore our sixth year," Ron said suddenly, as if only remembering it just then. "She has an uncle here that she was living with. His name started with a C or a K."

Hermione made a note on a piece of parchment. "Can you remember what it was?"

Ron shook his head. "Dumbledore started to say it, but changed it to 'your uncle' last-second." He had another swallow of butterbeer, then said, "He also said something about McGonagall, and Asher not being able to stay at Hogwarts. I didn't say anything about it then because she did end up staying, and it didn't seem important with everything else going on."

Both Harry and Hermione sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the new information, Hermione scribbling madly on her parchment. Harry broke the silence first.

"I remember a detention I had with Snape, fifth year," he said. "I was there for hours, cleaning out used phials. She stopped by, asking for her monthly allotment of aconite and knotgrass." Hermione raised her eyebrows, writing something in the margins, then waited. "He gave it to her, but he was really nasty. And true to form, she was nasty right back. He threatened to take points from Gryffindor for her cheek. She said something like, 'Wouldn't it be a shame if I forgot my potion one night?'" Harry met Hermione's eyes, his face utterly serious. "I don't know what it meant, Hermione, but he looked dead scared."

Hermione's mind was racing. That comment suggested she took a potion every night.. but what for? Would the fact that she needed to brew it explain why every weekend she had shut herself inside her room for hours? If she'd been making a potion that involved aconite in her fourth year, then she was even more talented and knowledgeable than Hermione had thought. And why had Snape, the most unflappable professor, been scared of Asher, a fifteen-year-old girl? Was she dangerous?

They rehashed a few things they knew about Asher, but it didn't amount to much, and none of it was new information. They parted amiably, hugging and promising to do it again soon.

Hermione walked back to the castle with her thoughts storming furiously. Professor Lupin came to mind, having to take the Wolfsbane Potion every month, but she would have noticed if Asher was a werewolf, certainly. She had never taken ill at school except for a couple of spelling accidents, and they hadn't been at the full moon.

Despite the influx of new information, Hermione Granger was stumped. It wasn't something she was accustomed to feeling, and instead of going to bed, she paced determinedly past her quarters to consult her trusty old friend, the library.


	5. The Glowing Potion

The next Wednesday, Hermione, waiting behind her desk for the next class, received a sealed note from one of the prefects in Ravenclaw. "Thank you, Jonas," she said pointedly, waving him on when he seemed determined to hang around and see the contents of the folded parchment. When he had gone, she pried off what seemed to be regular Muggle tape and opened it to find narrow, slanted and somewhat sloppy writing.

_I have tested the elixir for Crookshanks, and it seems to be in working order. Please stop by my classroom some time after eight this evening to pick up what I've made already and instructions on how to brew it, should you want to take up the task yourself._

_Asher Erised_

Hermione smiled with relief. The orange tabby had been quite grumpy recently, given the pain in his joints, and it would be nice to see him returned to his former, independent self. She tucked the note in her pocket and put the book about American wizarding laws she had been reading in a drawer as the students entered, deciding to leave dinner a bit early so she could get Crookshanks his remedy as soon as possible.

Pacing down the corridor to the dungeons that evening, Hermione caught a Slytherin student repeatedly hexing a rat, for which she deducted five points from his house. It held her up a few minutes as she sternly explained that there should be no magic practiced in the halls, and perhaps he should practice it on someone who had the ability to say "no," but she still reached Asher's classroom well before eight. The door was slightly ajar, and unlike when she had come before, there was only a dimly flickering light emerging from the crack it made.

Curious, she crept around the faint sliver it made on the floor and peered through the crack from a distance of a few feet. She saw Asher's profile, illuminated only by a single candle and the flames beneath the cauldron she was hunched over. She stirred the potion inside three times precisely, removed the golden spoon gingerly, and deposited it into a dragonhide-lined sack attached to the edge of the table. She waited there for a moment, staring at the cauldron intently, and when it suddenly let off a silver glow, Hermione could see in the brighter light that Asher's face was very relieved indeed.

With a copper ladle, Asher carefully scooped the mixture into seven clear bottles, the light dimming with each portion; the light faded after each scoop was bottled, Hermione supposed. After Asher had stoppered them, she waved her wand at the cauldron- _"Scourgify!"_ \- and, after placing six of the bottles carefully inside her desk, slumped into the chair, clearly exhausted. Hermione watched her pinch her brow, reminded of how tired she had looked at the welcoming feast. She waved her wand wordlessly, and the rest of the floating candles burst into light. Hermione could now see the last bottle on the desk, and Asher stared at it with something akin to frustration, then stashed it somewhere inside her robes, today a cheery orange that contrasted starkly with her dark expression.

Hermione sneaked around the longer rectangle of light, cleared her throat, and knocked on the door, which opened wider.

Hermione saw Asher glance at her watch in surprise and flick her wand, the cauldron flying up to hang on a long metal hook attached to the ceiling. "Come in." Hermione walked through the doorway, her eyes falling on a crystal phial full of a powdered substance still sitting on the table. Asher saw where she was looking and flicked her wand twice, causing it to fly through the air as a cabinet door opened to admit it, then closed again. Hermione had just caught a few of the letters on the neatly and clearly labeled bottle: "ONIT." Harry's story about Snape and the potion ingredients sprang to mind, and she guessed it had been aconite, which meant she had just witnessed Asher brewing the potion she apparently took every night.

Asher smiled briefly but distantly at her, then opened a desk drawer and withdrew a large bottle filled with murky green liquid and a sheet of parchment. "Hermione, you're early. Not that it's all that surprising," she added in a softer tone, realizing her words had come out rather more harshly than she had intended.

As Hermione approached she noticed a fresh, neat cut on the other woman's palm, but averted her gaze from it before she could be accused of staring. Had she done that to herself?

Asher set the bottle on the desk, holding out the parchment with her uninjured hand for Hermione to take. "On this side, it has the directions. It doesn't take long, only half an hour, and it's very hands-off for the most part. You should give him a tablespoon twice a day, preferably at twelve-hour intervals. I wouldn't recommend any more than that." She flipped the parchment over. "I've written that on this side, in the unlikely event that you forget." She smiled again, more briefly than before. "As I recall, you always _did_ have a mind like a steel trap," she added wryly.

Hermione went a bit pink, despite the fact that Asher's tone of voice suggested she hadn't quite meant it as a compliment. _Don't be silly,_ Hermione thought, but her past doubts lingered persistently in the back of her mind. "Thank you," she said, lifting the bottle, which was surprisingly light, and taking the parchment from Asher's outstretched hand. She noted that the other professor was careful not to touch her. "What can I do in return?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Asher said with a wave of her hand. "We're colleagues now, after all. Consider it a professional courtesy."

"Yes, but you spent all that time researching and testing," Hermione protested.

"Something I have a lot of experience in," Asher said dismissively, "so it didn't bother me much."

"But if there's something I can do.. pay for the ingredients you used--" Hermione started, but Asher shook her head.

"Most of the ingredients came from the student cupboard, which are provided by the school, and the cost to myself was so negligable that I'd have to ask you to split a Sickle into fifths to equal what it was worth." She twisted a corner of her mouth, then said, "I appreciate the offer, Hermione, but it's really unnecessary."

"Oh. Well, okay," Hermione said reluctantly. She gave a half-hearted smile. "I had to try."

Asher smiled back, a real one this time. "I would have been shocked if you hadn't."

They looked at one another for a long moment. The Potions professor's smile had faded, her expression serious. Candlelight reflected in Asher's eyes, which Hermione had first thought to be hazel; instead, it illuminated green, grey, a light brown, and even blue, fascinating Hermione with the variety. The moment stretched to a minute, and realizing that neither of them had spoken for some time, Hermione suddenly felt self-conscious and looked away, missing the strange expression that had come over Asher's face. "Well, I'll just be going," she said awkwardly, feeling like a student caught in the Restricted Section without permission. "I want to give this to Crookshanks as soon as I can."

Asher nodded, walking around her desk to accompany Hermione to the door, catching her eyes once more. "Let me know how it works, alright?" she asked kindly, and after receiving confirmation that she would know as soon as there were results, she watched Hermione disappear down the hall, her gaze becoming distant once she had disappeared from sight.


	6. The Dinner in Hogsmeade

Crookshanks was prowling about the castle and grounds with renewed vigor, and Hermione wrote a short but emphatic thank you note to Asher, inviting to buy her dinner or drinks in Hogsmeade the next weekend to express her gratitude. She sent Crookshanks himself to carry it down into the dungeons. He looked quite offended to be treated like an owl, but took it in his mouth anyway and disappeared around the doorframe with a flick of his tail.

She felt rather bad being so suspicious of the Potions professor after what she had done for Crookshanks, despite the cat's dislike for her. McGonagall clearly trusted her, allowing her to teach, and the students seemed to regard her with a mix of respect and awe.

But still.. her cat was a very good judge of character. She remembered as if it were yesterday how Crookshanks had repeatedly gone after Ron's old rat Scabbers, who had, of course, turned out to be the very untrustworthy Animagus Peter Pettigrew.

Really, Hermione would be a fool to ignore her cat's reaction-- he had acted as if Asher were a threat, a response he usually saved for Dark wizards and predators larger than he. And what had Asher said? Animals didn't like her. That said something, as well. Though she had seemed rather resigned to the fact, and not as if it were something she felt relieved about. And yet there was so much Hermione didn't know about her former classmate.

The next day, Hermione received another note brought by a prefect-- really, did they have nothing better to do than pass messages between professors?-- from Asher.

_Dinner tonight? Feeling starved for Madame Rosmerta's cooking. Meet you in the entrance hall at seven?_

_Asher_

Hermione scribbled a quick affirmative on the note and tapped it with her wand, murmuring the spell they used in the Ministry of Magic. The parchment folded into a neat paper airplane and soared out of her classroom. Satisfied that no other prefects would be late for class, she headed to the library to review the properties of and uses for aconite and knotgrass.

Several hours later, Hermione stood tapping her foot in the entrance hall. Asher was almost fifteen minutes late, and she felt tormented by the smells wafting from the Great Hall. She waited a few minutes more, but her stomach growled loudly, and she took that as a signal. She strode resolutely towards the dungeons to see what was holding up their dinner.

Halfway there, her steps faltered. She didn't know that Asher's quarters were close to her classroom; in fact, she didn't know where they were at all. This annoyed her, as she took great pride in knowing things, and shouldn't she know where Asher lived? After all, if she needed to consult her about something, how would she know where to find her when classes were out?

Her irritation driving her, she resumed her brisk pace to Asher's classroom. She would just have to try there first. As she approached, she observed a faintly green light coming from the door, and heard the other woman's voice ring clearly into the corridor. "Yes, Uncle Corn, I have!" She sounded distinctly irritated, herself, as if she'd heard plenty of questions like this already and was none too pleased. "Don't you think there would have been a headline or two if I hadn't been?"

A man's voice, clearly British and vaguely familiar, drifted into the hall, much softer than Asher had been speaking. "I'm just checking," it said mildly. "I have a right to be worried, you know, after your father--"

"You shut up about my father," she snapped. "You two barely spoke after he married Mom, no support at all. You have no idea how hard he worked. It wasn't his fault she didn't take it, and still you judge him--"

"Now it is time for you to stop talking," said the man's voice abruptly and much more loudly than before. "You don't know the strain she put upon our family, or what I went through. A very good thing she didn't take the family name, it was, in the end."

"Thought she would ruin it, eh?" Asher said, emotion shaking her voice. "No need to worry about that now. I can't go about besmirching your precious reputation. Besides," she added coldly, "you did a fine job of it all by yourself." Then she swore. "You've made me late, Uncle. This conversation is over. I would be quite happy to speak to you next over Easter."

Hermione lifted her eyebrows; it was only the end of September. She felt guilty eavesdropping on a private conversation, but she reminded herself that now wasn't really the time to announce her arrival. She heard a faint pop! from within the room, and a few moments later Asher burst out, a sour, angry look upon her face as she stormed down the hall. She was so preoccupied that she nearly ran into Hermione.

"Oh," she said, a bit abruptly, "do watch where you're-- Hermione!" A note of apology came into her voice as she examined who she'd run into. "I didn't mean-- I was just-- sorry. Didn't realize it was you." She took a shaky breath.

"You were late, and I came down to check, and I heard-- well, you sounded upset, anyway," Hermione finished lamely.

"Quite," Asher said shortly, gesturing for Hermione to walk with her. "My uncle.. well, he's never cared for me much, but seems to think he can still lecture me. Even though it's been several years since my seventeenth birthday and longer since I lived with him," she added with no small amount of bitterness. Hermione waited for her to elaborate, but Asher seemed to have realized she'd been talking about herself and said no more. It was the most about her personal life that Hermione had ever heard come from her lips, and renewed her appetite for information.

They walked to Hogsmeade in silence, though not an uncomfortable one: It was too hard to be grumpy with the beautiful fall weather around them. Even at this time of night, it was still rather warm outside, and Hermione didn't really need the cloak she was wearing, even when a cool breeze started up and rustled through the leaves on the ground.

Hermione's mind wandered to the conversation she had overheard. What on earth had Asher meant about headlines? She had probably been referencing the potion she took just before that, true, but why would she make the papers if she didn't drink it? Then she thought of Harry overhearing her talking with Snape, her threat, and how frightened he said Snape had looked. Was she really that dangerous? Hermione couldn't imagine Minerva inviting her to teach if she wasn't safe.

And the jibes about her father.. judging from the way she defended him, she had known and cared for him very much, so he must be dead or she wouldn't have gone to live with her uncle, who must have been her father's brother. Asher had called him Uncle Corn, obviously short for Cornelius. The man had seemed quite obsessed with his family's standing, and hadn't spoken well of Asher's mother. Hermione couldn't really blame him for the latter, after learning from Harry that she was locked up in Alcatraz. He had also implied that her father was at fault for something that her mother, presumably Marion Erised, had done, and that Asher might end up like her.

Hermione needed to find out more about Marion.

They stepped into the warmth of the Three Broomsticks a little while later, Asher signaling Madame Rosmerta with a friendly wave and a charming smile Hermione rarely saw on her, but which seemed quite normal to the innkeeper. In short order there were steaming bowls of chowder and plates full of fresh turkey and scalloped potatoes, and both Hermione and Asher tucked in eagerly.

When they had slowed their pace a bit, Hermione looked at Asher curiously. "How did you get to be so good at potions?" she asked. "It usually takes years of experience, but you-" Hermione had been going to say 'You were brewing advanced ones at the age of fourteen,' but she wasn't supposed to know that. "You worked for the Ministry defusing dangerous ones, and now you're here," she said instead.

Asher smiled at the compliment, taking a sip of a drink Madame Rosmerta had only called a 'One-Two,' explaining in an aside to Hermione, "Because by the time you finish the second one, you feel like you've been punched."

"My dad was a potioneer," Asher explained, "and we had daily lessons every summer when I was on vacation from school. He was rather innovative, actually, but he didn't get much recognition. He published a few books on Potions Theory, but only excerpts ever made it into any of the major collections." She blinked, as if slightly astonished at herself. "Anyway, I had plenty of practice growing up. And I like potions. They're precise, neat. Everything is ordered and controlled." She took another sip of her drink and rolled her eyes. "Though as to how I managed to continue enjoying them with a teacher like Snape, I can only guess that it was Divine intervention."

Hermione grinned. "He did rather hate you. But then, I'm not sure he'd even heard such cheek from Fred and George."

"Hey, I only gave him attitude when he deserved it," Asher said seriously. "That man enjoyed having power over others way too much."

Hermione nodded soberly, having thought the same thing on a few occasions. It really had been good that he was firmly on Dumbledore's side during the War: the Headmaster had been one of the very few people he would willingly listen to.

"Still, he didn't really deserve what he got in the end," Asher continued quietly, looking into her drink. "I could have used his help on some of those potions I found after it all."

They had a moment of silence in remembrance. He really had been brilliant, as much as he had been impossible to like.

"What kinds of things did you find?" asked Hermione, as much to sate her own curiosity as to change the subject.

"Oh, all kinds of nasty stuff," Asher said rather distantly, stirring her drink. "There was one that, when tested on a toad, completely shriveled it, but it was still trying to move and hop around, though without much success." She gave a shiver. "We found someone in the basement who had been given some. No idea how long he'd been there." She closed her eyes, looking pained, then said quietly, "It took me two weeks to find an antidote, and by that time, he had to go in a special ward at St. Mungo's." She paused, then continued glumly, "From what I hear, he still isn't doing well."

Hermione wished she hadn't asked at the look on Asher's face-- it was clear that the other woman counted this as a failure. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

Asher took a big swallow of her drink and waved a hand half-heartedly. "You can't win them all," she said with unconvincing confidence. "I certainly lost a majority. But there were so few others to help.." Her eyes went unfocused, staring off into space.

Hermione sat and took a long draught off her butterbeer, unsure of what to say. Again she felt a pang of guilt at looking into Asher's past and eavesdropping on her conversations. No one was this good at acting: She had obviously been deeply affected by the War and had been against Voldemort, just like Hermione, which knocked the theory she had had in her school days about Asher being a spy out the window. And yet..

And yet Hermione did not like unanswered questions, or plot holes in story lines, and there were many of those surrounding the mysterious Asher Erised. Her mother in prison, her father's whereabouts unknown, and her unusual last name, for that matter. Her transfer to Hogwarts in their fourth year was particularly questionable: Hermione had written just the other day to Yorke Academy on the pretense of reconnecting with an old friend, but they had replied that there was no record of an Asher Erised ever attending school there, and that she must have been mistaken. Her disappearance the school year leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts and the death of Voldemort was completely unexplained. And then there was the matter of the three years between school and returning to teach, only seven months of which could be accounted for by the Ministry.

They chatted inconsequentially for a while, exploring topics ranging from the unfairness of laws against werewolves and other part-humans to whether Argus Filch really rather ought to retire, hadn't he had enough? "Ah, the time!" Asher suddenly exclaimed in the middle of their friendly debate about house-elves, and dashed off to the lavatory.

Hermione stared after her, then looked at her watch. It was just after ten-thirty. They had been here longer than she had thought, but it wasn't that late. She was surprised not that Asher was so knowledgeable-- she had rivaled Hermione in how many hours she had had her nose stuck in a book at school-- but that they had so many interests in common. They both thought that the general attitudes on most magical creatures and their treatment were archaic and inflexible, and each had spent a lot of their time studying the history and mystery of Hogwarts. Asher, too, agreed that Quidditch was a bit silly, but then she had grown up playing Quodpot, which was favored more in the United States. The most fascinating part was that she knew more about Muggles than most witches and wizards Hermione knew combined, except for herself and Harry, and spoke about them so matter-of-factly that it was almost as if she'd grown up in a Muggle family like they had.

Asher returned from the bathroom a minute later, tucking something into her robes and looking a bit sleepy. She yawned and said, "I should really be getting back to the castle. It's past my bedtime."

Hermione eyed her sidelong as they departed and walked back to the castle. Past her bedtime? They were adults. Hermione herself didn't go to bed until after midnight. But then she reminded herself that getting good rest was key to being alert and able to function, and it was only responsible for a professor to do so.


	7. Equally Broken

Several weeks later, Hermione stood at the front of her classroom, calling for silence. It was easy to do-- these were first-years, and she knew that most of their parents had told them the role their soon-to-be Transfiguration professor had played in the war against Voldemort. They all had beheld her with a sort of awe, and in the first class of the year had seemed shocked when she started talking, as if they didn't expect she would bow so low.

"Today we will be attempting to transfigure worms into ribbons," she said, after assuring she had their attention. Though she usually received a chorus of negative answers and shaking heads, she asked, as she always did, "Any questions before we begin?"

Not expecting to see any hands, it took a moment before she noticed the chubby boy with dark eyes and messy brown hair lift his into the air. Surprised, she said, "What is it, Simmons?"

"Er-- well--" he hedged, looking as if he was reconsidering now that Hermione's steady gaze was aimed at him. She made a motion for him to continue, and he went on, rather squeakily, "What was it like? You know, er.. fighting him?"

Hermione felt a weight sink into her stomach. There was always at least one student a term who asked this question, and though she did not enjoy answering, she felt that it was important for even the youngest of their students to know how bad dark wizards could become. She gazed out over the class, taking in how tiny they looked, how fragile. Each and every one was wide-eyed and watching her intently, surely wondering whether she would take points from their Houses for such a daring and personal question, and wondering too if she would even answer.

She took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. "It was the most frightening time of my life." Her mind flashed through scenes like tableaus: shivering on watch, guarding their tent on the search for Horcruxes; the sight of Harry hanging limply in Hagrid's arms, most certainly dead; the destruction of the castle; the siege of the giants; the dagger protruding from Dobby's chest. She felt tears pricking her eyes, but fought them back with determination, bringing her gaze up once more. "You must understand, it was not only Voldemort--" there was an intake of breath from the class, which she ignored-- "we were fighting. He rallied all the dark creatures and dark wizards he could find, and he had people controlled by magic, who he used as spies. You didn't know if you could trust anyone; for all you knew, your mother was under his control. We had to watch our backs at all times."

She took a hitching breath. "He had agents everywhere. He was attacking someone new every day, stealing things he needed, killing or torturing those who got in his way. He nearly destroyed the castle you're in now with his forces because he was determined to find my best friend and kill him."

"Why didn't you run?" a girl whispered so faintly that Hermione could barely hear her.

"We did, for a long time, trying to-- to find ways to weaken his power. There were times when we felt that we could never defeat him."

"Why did you even try?" asked a boy who looked a lot like Neville Longbottom. "You were still in school, right, Professor? Why didn't you just let someone older than you do it?" He got scandalized looks from the rest of the class. "What? I always let my mum handle stuff I can't."

Hermione smiled weakly. "That's usually a good idea, Jackson, except in this case, so many had already tried and failed. And not only that..." She paused to think, then looked at them each in turn. "Imagine someone, a fellow student, who you have never done anything to hurt, who is so mean to you that you can hardly stand it. Imagine that they say terrible things to you, about your family, about you, about your friends. Imagine that they start stealing your things. Imagine that they hex and jinx you at every opportunity, and to add insult to injury, some people even say that they're right for doing it, because your mother was a Muggle, or you said you agreed with someone they didn't like. What would you do?"

"I would tell a teacher!" said Jackson.

"And what if the teacher didn't do anything about it? What if they gave you detention for accusing that person?"

"That would be unfair!" said another girl whose name Hermione hadn't memorized yet.

"Yes. And then what would you do?" Hermione questioned.

"Go to the headmistress?" someone suggested.

"What if she laughed at you, and said you were only a silly child who was making a big fuss over nothing?"

The students looked at each other with bewilderment, unable to imagine Headmistress McGonagall saying such a thing in such a situation. They all then turned their eyes to Hermione, and the following silence could have allowed them to hear a toothpick drop onto the floor.

Finally, "I would try to make him stop," said the pudgy boy who had asked the first question, quietly but resolutely. "No one should be allowed to treat other people that way and not get in trouble." He looked as if he had been in such a situation many times.

Hermione nodded soberly and said, "And that is precisely why we fought him. Voldemort was, in the simplest word, evil. He wanted to kill or lock up all the people who weren't pure wizard. He wanted every aspect of the world's daily life under his control: what you learned, where you worked, who your friends were. And most importantly, he made other people pay the price for his hunger for power."

She stared out at the class, only half-seeing them. "I watched many of my friends, some of whom I considered family, die because of Voldemort. He attacked my friend Harry Potter our first year, and our second, and our fourth... and so on. Everyone was afraid and suspicious, and the world was in a panic. Even the Muggles noticed something was happening, and were being attacked and killed. I didn't want to live in a world like that, and so I did everything I could to stop him. We all did." By this point, tears were threatening to roll down her cheeks, and she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve before continuing. "And for your sake, I'm glad we succeeded."

A girl named Jeanette said, "Professor, I read about all the things you did. How could you have been scared? You were so brave!" There was a general murmur of agreement from the rest of the class.

Hermione looked at her with a watery smile, and was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, "Bravery is not doing big, impressive things, Jeanette. It is doing what you know is right, even when you are so scared that you can hardly think. Never forget that." She wiped another tear from the corner of her eye, then said, "I rather think that's enough material for today. I will see you all next time." After they had all gone, whispering amongst themselves, Hermione retreated into her office and collapsed into racking sobs.

Hermione did not go to dinner that evening. She remained in her office with a bottle of firewhisky and a pot of tea, her eyes on something far away, memories of the time when Voldemort terrorized the wizarding world cascading unbidden through her mind. She second-guessed every decision and every assumption she had made for the umpteenth time since she had made them, wondering why she hadn't seen connections between events, wondering if the deaths she was reliving could have been prevented if she'd only been clever enough.

She was in a dismal mood when she heard a soft tapping on her office door. "I'm busy," she said tremulously, her voice hoarse from disuse. "Come back later."

"Hermione?" a voice asked, muffled by the thick wooden door. "Hermione, are you okay? You weren't at dinner." An American accent: Asher. Hermione hurriedly wiped her face, wishing she could do something about her eyes, which she was sure were bloodshot and puffy. She didn't want Asher thinking-- whatever she might think.

The door opened a crack. "Hermione?"

"Oh alright, come in," she said tiredly, glancing at the clock-- 10:15-- before resting her forehead on the heels of her hands.

Asher entered quietly, shutting the door softly behind her. Near-silent footsteps approached Hermione's desk, and the wooden chair on the other side creaked slightly as it settled under the weight of a person. Hermione expected Asher to start speaking, but she didn't, even when the silence stretched for minutes.

After what seemed like an hour to Hermione, she heaved a sigh, realizing that Asher was not going to leave, but neither was she going to question her about her absence or comment on how terrible she looked. Hermione almost wished she would; it would give her an excuse to be irritated and kick her former classmate out so she could be alone. Slowly, she lifted her head from her hands, meeting Asher's eyes.

There was sympathy, and concern, and a tranquil patience in Asher's gaze as she regarded Hermione's swollen eyelids and damp cheeks, but no judgement. She gazed at Hermione for a long moment. Her lips did an odd twitch, and then she said gently, "I heard about what happened in your class today."

Hermione waited for more, but it was all the other woman said, and for some reason it was enough to make her tear up again. Embarrassed, she looked away, sniffling. "It happens every year," she said, attempting to sound off-handed and failing.

"What you said about bravery.. very poignant, and very true," Asher said, as if Hermione had not spoken. Much more softly, so that Hermione had to strain to hear, she continued, "I wish I'd had someone to tell me that when I was young."

Hermione couldn't stop herself: She began sobbing again. All the reasons she had fought Voldemort, all her values, welled strongly in her in response to Asher's words, clashing violently with her survivor's guilt. Not only that, but Asher had just told her something very personal-- against her usual policy of withholding-- in an attempt to comfort her; Hermione could tell from the way she had said it that it had cost her something to do so, and she felt even more remorseful that she had been digging into the other woman's past.

She kept waiting for Asher to say those stupid comforting things people say to one another when tears were involved: There there, let it all out; hush, everything will be fine; don't cry, there's always tomorrow. But Asher said none of those things, and instead Hermione heard her come around the desk. She felt a light hand on her shoulder, and Hermione turned in her chair to lean against the comforting solidity of another person.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that: Hermione sobbing into Asher's robes, Asher stroking her shoulder and rubbing her back gently. Gradually, she calmed, still shaking but no longer crying. It was nice to have someone to lean on, for once; Hermione had always been the one with the comforting words. Not having to be the strong one... it was a pleasant change.

She shifted back to look into the other woman's face and say thank you. Asher's thumb slipped from her shoulder and brushed the back of her neck; Goosebumps broke out on Hermione's neck and arms, her scalp prickling. Her breath quickened, and a wave of warmth spread through her to the tips of her toes. She felt the need to look Asher in the eye, and once she had, was unable to look away.

Asher's face was paler than ever, her skin appearing luminous in the firelight. She seemed taller than before, and somehow- different. Gone was the patience and kindness, her expression now intense and filled with something Hermione couldn't identify. Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath, and she let it out in a slow whoosh that blew over Hermione like a wave of perfume, musky and alluring. Her black hair glimmered as she smiled, a slow, arrogant curl of the lips that made Hermione shiver from a combination of fear and fascination.

Hermione slowly stood, which brought her face within a few centimeters of the other woman's, and gazed searchingly into her eyes. She felt drawn closer, curious to find what was new; she was sure that if she only got close enough, she could see it, could get what she needed. Her nose brushed Asher's-

" _NO!_ " Asher cried suddenly, throwing herself back and against the wall, her arms scrambling for purchase. They found none, the stone too smooth, and she slid down the wall to the floor, holding her hands in front of her, her face panicked. "Hermione, listen to me! Stay away, just- just stay away!" She rummaged in her robes frantically, searching first one side, then the other. "Oh, come on..." Asher's hands shook as she reached into pockets, finally thinking to check her trousers, and she pulled out one of the crystal phials. She fumbled with the stopper as Hermione, partially woken from her strange reverie, watched, and then downed the contents in one swallow. She slumped against the wall, banging her head by accident. "Just a moment.. just wait," she said feebly, again holding out one of her hands pleadingly.

As Hermione watched, a change came over Asher. The ethereal glow faded, and instead of confident and beautiful, she seemed tired and worn. Hermione blinked, feeling herself as though she had stepped out of a fog. When she could find words, she said breathlessly, "What _was_ that?"

Asher quickly but clumsily got to her feet, her heel trapping the hem of her robe. She lifted her foot, then said, "I really have to go, I'm so sorry," and hurried out the door.

But Hermione had had enough of evasions, and after taking a few moments to gather herself up, stormed out the door to get her answers.


	8. Almost Answers

Hermione emerged into the corridor in time to see Asher quickly disappear around a corner. She followed quietly but with determination. For some reason, she didn't want Asher to know she was trailing her, and though her heart was still racing from whatever had happened, she strained to keep her breathing slow and quiet.

She eased softly around the corner, watching Asher come to a halt outside the staff room, not her quarters, as Hermione had expected. She said the password to the gargoyle, which Hermione could hear complaining about the time, and slipped into the room, the door closing firmly behind her. Hermione crept closer, wondering why Asher had come here, instead of going to her room.

She paused a meter from the door, and then remembered something- she had confiscated an Extendable Ear from a student earlier that day. She searched her robes for it, hoping she hadn't left it in her desk... Yes, there it was, tucked in an inside pocket. She rolled the hearing end to the crack at the base of the door and tucked the stringy end into her ear.

"--just not safe anymore. I appreciate you giving me the position, but I don't think I should stay." Asher's voice was shaky and clouded with emotion.

"Utter nonsense," came the firm voice of Headmistress McGonagall. "You mentioned that you had an 'attack', but not what actually occurred, and I will not dismiss you until I know what it was, and who was involved. Now explain."

"I--" Asher paused for a long moment. "I went to check on Her-- Professor Granger, because I heard about her first year class today and she didn't come to dinner. That was unusual, I wanted to make sure she was alright." She took a deep breath. "It wasn't quite time to take my potion yet, but I had it with me. She was very upset, and I lost track of the time. And then.. then I touched her, by accident, and I felt it..." She stopped.

"Felt what, Asher?" McGonagall prodded.

"It," Asher breathed. "That part of me.. It was happy, so happy to finally be free, and there was Hermione, just sitting there, entranced, helpless, so..." She broke off, then said, sounding troubled, "I wanted to so badly."

"To what?"

"To let go." Asher said this very quietly.

"And did you?" McGonagall asked gently, in the same tone Hermione had heard her use Asher's first day of class all those years ago.

"No!" Asher exclaimed indignantly. "As soon as I realized what was happening, I took the potion. I would never do that, not to Hermione."

There was a long silence.

"I think," McGonagall finally said, "that you should get some rest, and revisit your desire to resign in the morning."

"But.. but Minerva--"

McGonagall continued, quite firmly, "You are an excellent teacher, Asher, and I would be hard-pressed to replace you on such short notice. The students like you, and I am finally able to spend time with you after your-- extended absence." The emotion sounding odd on her, she said, "You are the closest thing I have to a daughter, Ash, and I know that Dumbledore would want me to give you a chance, as he did in good faith when he admitted you to the school. Do you think he made a mistake?"

Hermione blinked from her position out in the corridor; she hadn't known that Asher and the Headmistress were that close.

"No," Asher said quietly, sounding subdued.

"Alright then," McGonagall said briskly, a chair scraping against the floor. "We will talk more about the implications--"

But Hermione didn't hear the rest, as she had retracted the Extendable Ear and was hurrying back down the corridor before she could be discovered. She had much to think about as she dashed back to her office. When she reached her desk, she pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and outlined what she knew about Asher.

_One: She transferred to Hogwarts her fourth year, but not from Yorke Academy of Sorcery. Unknown: Is there another school in the US?_

_Two: She must take a potion every night that stops her from... what?_

_Three: Dumbledore was aware of this when he let her into the school._

_Four: McGonagall also knows, and she seems to think that Asher can control it._

_Five: She has an uncle named Cornelius, her father's brother._

_Six: Her mother's name was different than her father's name, and she took her mother's name. Why?_

_Seven: She was gone from Hogwarts at the same time I was. Where was she?_

And so it went, Hermione staying up later than was prudent, expanding her list and finally moving the operation to the library, using her teacher's privileges to go there after it had closed. Eleven said: She mentioned her father was a potioneer, and his work made it into a few anthologies, so she pulled collections of works on Potions down from the shelves, running her finger down the lists of contributors, looking for something that popped out at her.

It wasn't until she opened a book called Impossible Potions for Impractical Uses that she found anything useful. This book did not have a list of the people whose work it included, so she had to go through the pages one by one, looking for the byline that listed the inventor. Knack, Josephine... Blinker, Bilius...

Hermione froze as she stared at the page before her. It listed the ingredients for a Suppression Draught, which needed, among other things, knotgrass and aconite. Under uses, it said, "To keep the darkest desire of the user bound within for a twenty-four hour period. Side-effects: Sleepiness, sluggishness of the mind." Hermione read the section at the beginning, which sounded rather like a disclaimer: "Though the idea of this potion was a popular one, the application received unanimously dreadful responses. Most reported that they only experienced the side-effects, which were rather strong, and felt no decrease in their desire to do amoral things. In short, this potion is widely regarded as a dud."

She examined the brewing instructions, marking the part at the end that said if it had been done right, it would let off a glow, the color of which was specific to the brewer. This last bit puzzled her until she reexamined the ingredient list and found Ten drops of blood, provided by the subject. Her mind flashed on the silvery light coming out of Asher's cauldron, then the scars all over Asher's palms and the fresh cut she had seen. The byline of the Suppression Draught read, "Fudge, Darius."

Hermione's jaw dropped. Fudge.. Uncle Corn.. _Asher's uncle is the former Minister of Magic?_ Suddenly, what Asher had said to him in anger made sense: "I can't go about besmirching the family name. Besides, you did a fine job of it all by yourself." Cornelius Fudge had vehemently denied for years, despite all the signs to the contrary, that Voldemort was indeed back. His smear campaign against Harry Potter and his badgering of Dumbledore came back to bite him after it was shown that Dumbledore and Harry had been right all along: Voldemort made an appearance in front of several Ministry officials at the end of their fifth year. Fudge had been forced to resign in disgrace.

She reviewed more of Asher's words. "It wasn't his fault she didn't take it." She had been referring to her mother, obviously, which indicated that Marion Erised had been taking the same potion. But she had apparently lapsed one night, and now she was in Alcatraz.

Hermione remembered the time when the other woman had come in that very evening-- ten-fifteen-- and then recalled how Asher had run off to the lavatory in the Three Broomsticks at ten-thirty and come back, stashing something in her robes. Assuming it was an empty phial she had hidden, Asher regularly took the potion at ten-thirty, but she had missed her dose while she was comforting Hermione.

Revisiting how she had felt after Asher had touched her, she shivered. It had been as if she needed to be closer to her, and Asher had had that look on her face.. as if she were hungry, just waiting for Hermione to come nearer. Her cheeks went pink as she thought of how close the two of them had been. Their lips had been inches apart... Hermione shivered, then shook herself briskly.

All the evidence about Asher indicated that she might be dangerous. Her mother, in Alcatraz; Her uncle, uncomfortable around her and concerned that she wasn't taking the potion; her father, certainly dead; Dumbledore admitting her to Hogwarts "in good faith." The more that Hermione looked at the potion and its disclaimer, the more she felt that Darius Fudge had invented the potion specifically for his wife and daughter. Despite the answers she had found, Hermione now had even more questions. Who, really, was Marion Erised, and what had she done to land herself in prison? What had happened to Darius Fudge? And what was this "darkest desire" that needed to be bound?

Her dreams that night were deeply disturbing. An Asher bathed in a silver glow loomed over Hermione's studies in the library, taunting her, "You'll never know," in a singsong voice. She reached down and stroked Hermione's forearm with a long pale finger, setting it on fire, and she broke into a high-pitched cackle that turned into Voldemort's icy laugh. Hermione watched as Asher's eyes turned red and she smiled without mirth, and felt manacles form around her wrists, to which Asher held the chains.


	9. Chapter 9

Asher did not show up at breakfast or lunch the next day, and failed to turn up by dinner time. Hermione, burning for answers, went down to her classroom after she had eaten, but the Potions professor was not there. When she checked the staffroom, it was empty except for a house-elf, who was tidying up. Frustrated more than ever that she did not know where Asher lived, Hermione went up to the seventh floor and McGonagall's office. She told the gargoyle the password-- "Gamp's Law--" and stepped on the revolving staircase, which carried her up to the actual office door. She knocked, and there was an immediate "Come in!" She opened the door and stepped inside.

The large, circular office was decorated subtly with mostly Gryffindor colors, although a half-hearted attempt had been made to include the yellows, greens, and blues of the other Houses. Hermione noted with a smirk that the Slytherin colors had been accorded the least amount of space. McGonagall sat behind the great desk, various parchments before her, and put down her quill. "Professor Granger," she said briskly in greeting, without any trace of surprise.

"Headmistress," Hermione said hesitantly, taken aback at the lack of usual warmth. She knew-- though McGonagall would never admit it-- that she had been one of the Headmistress's favorite pupils, and was one of her favorite professors. "I was wondering where I could find Professor Erised."

"She has gone away for the weekend," McGonagall replied, turning her attention back to her desk.

"Do you know where she went?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Yes," McGonagall said simply, still not looking at Hermione, and her tone made it clear that she would not say where.

Hermione left the Headmistress's office a few minutes later, a bit mystified at McGonagall's frostiness toward her and none the wiser to Asher's whereabouts. As Monday approached, she kept an eye out for the other professor, but she did not return, and when Hermione went again to her classroom Sunday night, it was dark and empty.

Classes resumed, and Hermione's attention was once more on her students, but she kept attempting to speak with Asher. For the first few days, she tried to speak to her at the Head Table at mealtimes, but no one seemed keen to switch places with Hermione so she could sit by Asher, and the Potions professor pretended not to hear her name when Hermione tried to get her attention. Asher ate quickly, left the table before any of the other professors, and was always out of sight by the time Hermione followed her into the corridor outside the Great Hall. Eventually, she stopped coming to meals entirely. The message was clear: She did not want to talk.

Before long, word spread among the students that Professor Erised had become rather grumpier than usual, and the professors noted that, though she had never socialized with them much in the first place, she had stopped coming to the staff room entirely, and only spoke to them when there was a concern about a student. However, as she had never been much of a "people person", most did not think this a cause for worry.

The weeks wore on into months, and the end of term approached. The grounds became snowy and the air cold, and though they were loaded down with homework to prepare for exams and O.W.L.s, the students still managed to hold a snowball fight nearly every day; on the weekends, stepping outside was like walking onto a battlefield, each House fighting for dominance. Victory was judged by whoever resisted longest the urge to give up and go sit in front of a warm fire.

Hermione's attempts to catch the Potions professor were continually thwarted, and the Christmas holidays came and went. Hermione remained at Hogwarts in an attempt to corner Asher, but she seemed to have anticipated this, as the Headmistress informed Hermione that she had gone away for the holiday.

Much like when she was in school, Hermione could now be found in the library almost day and night. To vent her frustration that Asher was avoiding her, she researched everything she could think of about Asher: She looked into the lineage of the Fudges, Darius Fudge's work, the long list of ingredients in the Suppression Draught and their various properties, and even read about magical pets in an attempt to pin down why Crookshanks had hissed at her. No detail, however small, was overlooked, but she came up empty-handed: Nothing told her what had happened that night in her office or what Asher was hiding.

The day before the students were to return, she sat in her usual corner by the Restricted Section. Stack after stack of books with titles like Famous Enchanted Objects and "It Was My Great-Grandfather's": A History of Mysterious and Dangerous Artifacts and Their Origins nearly obscured her from view. She had finally begun on the most difficult thing to investigate: The Mirror of Erised. No matter which book she tried, every reference to it admitted that next to nothing was known about how it came into existence. She paged through the books almost feverishly, scanning the pages desperately, to no avail. Letting her head fall into her hands, she admitted defeat. Before she knew it, she was asleep.

Footsteps woke her, and she groaned as she lifted her head from the table, her shoulders and neck protesting the position she'd slept in. She rolled her neck gingerly, but froze when familiar blue robes came into view. Standing a short distance from Hermione was Asher herself. From the look on her face, she had not expected Hermione to be here, and didn't meet her eyes, choosing to look at the book piles instead. As she read one title after another, a look of shock, comprehension, and then anger spread across her face.

"You-- how could you?" she demanded of Hermione, her voice hoarse and quiet.

Hermione, fully awake now, looked down at the book lying open on the desk. A large representation of the Mirror of Erised was on one page. She looked guiltily back to Asher, understanding. It was quite obvious that she had been reading about the Mirror to find out Asher's secret.

Asher turned on her heel and stormed from the library, and Hermione jumped up quickly to follow, knocking a stack of books over in her haste. She would really hear it from Madam Pince later, but Asher was in her sights now, and she might not get another chance.

Hermione followed Asher through the corridors, aware that the other woman had noticed she was following and was picking up speed. "Asher, please!" she called after the black-haired woman. "You've hardly spoken to me in months, not since--"

"Stop!" Asher exclaimed, waving an arm behind her as she quickened her pace even more. "Just stop, Hermione, nothing happened, I was just feeling off, that's all."

"What do you mean, 'nothing happened'?" Hermione demanded, speeding up. Her voice echoed hollowly through the stairwell as they went down the steps to the dungeons. "I was there, remember? You-- you _changed_!"

They were at the door to Asher's classroom now, and the Potions professor stopped, holding out a hand as if to stop Hermione. "I was no different then than I ever was," she said firmly but breathily, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Now butt out, Professor Granger." She turned and went through the door, slamming it behind her.

Hermione stopped dead. Professor Granger? They hadn't called each other by their titles in ages. Hermione was surprised to feel how much it hurt, Asher putting up a wall like that; she had rather thought they were getting close. Well, they had been.. before what happened in her office. But, not about to let a closed door stop her, Hermione barged through the classroom door in time to see Asher's legs disappearing up a ladder that wasn't normally there. She hurried over, grabbing the base before the other woman could retract the only way to what were most likely her quarters. "I most certainly will not!" she shouted up the ladder before putting her foot resolutely on the bottom step. Her jaw set, she began to climb.

After what seemed like a hundred steps, Hermione felt the temperature change, and could now see a faint light. She emerged into a warm, humid room that seemed at first to be decked out in Slytherin colors. As Hermione ascended farther, she realized that the entire place was covered in and filled with vines and tropical-looking plants. Her irritation was stymied momentarily as she looked open-mouthed around Asher's room at the variety of flora. Among other things, there was a palm tree that appeared to be planted in the floor, and near it was a Venomous Tentacula that rivaled the one Professor Sprout had kept in the greenhouse, which Asher batted away casually as she settled on a cushy, chocolate brown couch with a resigned and, Hermione thought, slightly scared expression. But the light from the fireplace, set at a right angle to the couch (as much as was possible, given that the room was round) cast moving shadows across Asher's face, making it hard to be certain.

But her expression changed clearly to one of disdain as she noted that Hermione had come all the way in to her room. "Do come in," Asher said sarcastically, giving a horrible parody of a sweeping wave across her quarters before lounging with one ankle resting on the opposite knee and her arms spread casually along the back of the couch. "I'm so glad I invited you."

“Don't be a prat. I've been trying to talk to you for months!”

“Vlad does know some attack commands,” Asher said absently, as if she hadn't heard, stroking a carnivorous vine and smiling when it wriggled with pleasure. “He would never take a bite out of me, of course; Tentacula are very loyal if hand-raised.”

Hermione stared at the other woman, not quite believing what she was hearing. She had known Asher to sometimes say sarcastic things, but this was something... different, threatening even. It was a shock to see and hear this cool display from the woman who had willingly-- even eagerly-- come up with a potion to help the cat that didn't even like her, the woman who had laughed and talked for hours with her in Hogsmeade. Hermione stood, baffled, stifling an odd urge to giggle that Asher had named her dangerous plant after a vampire.

"So," Asher continued in a slow drawl, "now that you are here, get on with it."

Hermione blinked. "Get on with what?"

Asher rolled her eyes. "Whatever you were going to accuse me of." At the surprised look on the other woman's face, she laughed, though without mirth. "Your cat has been prowling around my classroom for months, and pairing that with discovering your research on a magical artifact that shares my name... Well," she said, her voice filled with a detached kind of amusement. "Go on, ask whatever it is you're just dying to find out."

Hermione stood as if rooted to the spot. Crookshanks had been spying on Asher? She certainly hadn't sent him to do that, only to take that one message to her. But clearly he knew where she usually was, and he must have picked up on Hermione's massive research into the other woman while she had studiously avoided his mistress. She wanted to say she hadn't sent Crookshanks on a mission, but stopped herself, realizing they were playing a strange sort of game now. Well, fine. "Yorke Academy of Sorcery has no records of you as a student," Hermione stated, folding her arms defiantly.

Asher tsk-ed, showing no indication of surprise that Hermione had gone to the trouble to find out. "Not a question, but alright, I'll bite. They wouldn't have any records of me, because I didn't go there." She folded her arms confidently, subconsciously mirroring Hermione. "What else ya got?"

"There's another school in the States?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Yes," Asher said, smug that she knew something Hermione didn't. "Littlebury School for the Gifted, located in Nevada." She gave a lazy grin. "Ever heard of Area 51? The school is underneath the 'dry' lake. A shame how little even the military knows about their own base." She snorted. "And people think it's aliens."

Hermione stared at her, intrigued by this new information, but recovered quickly. "Is your mother Marion Erised, the woman who got sent to Alcatraz?"

Asher laughed outright at that. "Gee, who would have guessed?" she said wryly. "It is such a common name after all." She feigned a yawn, a bored expression coming over her face. "Really, Hermione, I expected more from the top student in our year."

Hermione clenched her jaw, unappreciative of the mockery coming from a woman who she had started to consider a friend. She asked hotly, "And your father, did he invent the Suppression Draught specifically for you and your mum?"

At this, Hermione did get a reaction. Asher's face became tight, her previously relaxed posture tense. "I don't know what you're playing at, but it isn't funny," she said in a strained voice.

"You wanted questions," Hermione said quietly, suddenly full of barely suppressed anger at the way Asher was acting. "I'm giving you what you asked for." She stepped closer, mindful of the plant hovering over the Potions professor, and jabbed a finger in her direction. "You're hiding something, and it has to do with your mum. You take a potion every night at the same time, a Suppression Draught, have been taking it since we were in school." Her voice rose in volume. "You've been squashing your 'darkest desire,' and no matter how much Minerva trusts you, you're dangerous." Hermione's eyes narrowed as she glared at Asher, whose expression had gone from disdainful to wary. "I remember what happened to me," Hermione said intently, staring the other woman straight in the eye. "I'm just wondering how long it will be before it's one of the students."

A thick silence hung in the air after her words, the two of them staring at each other, Hermione breathing hard after her rant. The Venemous Tentacula seemed to sense the tension, and withdrew from Asher and into the rafters as if scared. Indeed, Hermione noted, there was an intense look on Asher's face, and with tendons popping from her jaw, the other woman finally said, between her teeth, "Get. Out."

Hermione only stared at her; she had never seen Asher this angry.

“GET OUT!” Asher roared, whipping about to pace. “How dare you imply I would hurt a student, I would never--” She was breathing fast, shaking her head as she paced around. “You of all people, Hermione. You of all people. You know me best, of just about everyone in this castle, did you know that?” She was looking at Hermione now, and saw the surprise reflected there. “I was actually starting to trust you.” She laughed, a bitter sound. “Do you realize how few people my age-- or in general-- I can say that about? And then,” she said, breath becoming ragged, “and then I find out that you're reading books, writing to schools, asking around to _everyone_ but _me_ about _me_.” She jabbed a thumb into her chest. “This, this is why I keep people away. Ever since my father died, I've kept people away because of shit like this. I thought you were different; I could see the questions in your eyes and I thought you were just being considerate, not asking them. But you weren't.”

Hermione watched her pace around the circular room. Asher seemed to have forgotten that she had asked her to leave, and almost seemed to be talking to herself, but she was as angry and agitated as Hermione had ever seen her, her face set into grim lines and her multifaceted eyes harboring a hard glint.

“If you must know, my mother is a succubus.” A long silence followed, Hermione too bewildered and hit by too many sudden brain waves to know what to say. Asher continued in a detached tone, "I didn't know until I came to Hogwarts. I thought she was a dark witch, that she took that potion for her "moods", as Dad called them, to repress the urge to do bad things. Dumbledore, after hearing it from my uncle Cornelius, broke the news to me. A succubus, eater of souls." She wiped her eye with the heel of her hand. "She killed my dad, after she forgot to take her potion one night." She glanced up at Hermione, who was wide-eyed and dumb with surprise, and quickly averted her gaze again. "I found him, cradled in her arms as she slept."

“Ash--”

“Stop, just stop. You wanted to know, so here it is. Minerva, it turned out, was about as much of an expert on succubi as you can find, as my kind tend to kill anyone who asks too many questions. She's managed to compile information on the various lines, their abilities. She figures I'm not a full succubus-- I don't have enough of the traits. But I'm enough of one that I do take that potion, just to be safe around people.

“Also just to be safe, she gave me my own room and told me to stay away from boys when I first got here. That was fine, but.. what was supposed to be our seventh year, I joined the Order. I was sent out as a spy. Since I'm what people think of as a 'dark creature', I was posing as a potential convert, and I wasn't taking my potion. And there was a barmaid..” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “I knew it wasn't safe to let people close to me, not without the potion, but she was kind, and funny, and I saw her often. And when I touched her...” She shivered. “It was like I couldn't break away. There were men, too, but I didn't feel anything for them, and none of them had me reacting like that. I loved her, and that put her in danger. So I left and I didn't go back there.”

“So, as I'm sure you've figured out, the more I care for someone, the more likely I am to kill them. That's what happened to my dad. And that's why I keep people away.”

Hermione couldn't move. She felt paralyzed by this revelation, horrified that she had betrayed Asher's trust so. She had known how secretive Asher was, she had known how little she spoke of her life, but she had insisted on investigating her anyway, just as if she was back in first year, playing detective to find out who Nicolas Flamel was... but she had been playing with Asher's emotions. To think that she'd been living with this burden, knowing that if she fell in love, she risked killing them... Hermione could hardly move her lips. "Asher, I'm sor--"

"Of course you're sorry now," Asher cut in. "Now that you know the sad story and you've seen the consequences." She collapsed on the couch, digging the heels of her hands into the hollows of her eyes, black hair falling in a curtain. Her voice came, muffled and defeated, from behind the dark veil. "You have no idea how lonely my life is, Hermione, and now I can't even trust you."

Hermione opened her mouth to apologize again, but a clock chimed from the wall over the fireplace. Wordlessly, Asher lifted herself from the couch, shoulders slumped, and grabbed a small bottle from the mantle, swallowing it in a few loud gulps. "Now that you know my dirty little secret, I really have to ask you to leave. As I'm sure you know from your research, one of the side-effects of this potion is that I get very sleepy." And without looking at Hermione again, she disappeared through a doorway at the back of the room.

The Transfiguration professor gazed at the doorway for a long time, debating what to do. Asher was clearly upset with her, and for good reason. All that digging she'd done had completely ruined any trust the other woman might have had in her, and Hermione doubted very much that Asher wanted her company.

But... Hermione recalled the strange silence after she'd said she hadn't let anyone that close since. She'd /said that she'd had to tear herself away from the barmaid she'd loved, and she hadn't returned. Asher had been avoiding Hermione since the night in her office, when Asher's powers had become so difficult to control...

Hermione stared blankly at the dark room beyond the doorframe, unable to immediately accept what the signs were pointing to; meanwhile, she sat on the couch, which faced away from Asher's bedroom, to think. Asher had definitely said barmaid, not barman, and hadn't she mentioned that she had been comfortable with the ban on boyfriends? And if her "darkest desire" flared only when she loved the person.. how did she feel about Hermione?

She remembered being so close to Asher, leaning against her for support, and felt a tingle. It intensified as she thought of the intimate look they had shared in Asher's classroom before Hermione had run off to give Crookshanks his potion. Instead of pushing it away, like she had before, she examined it, wondering if it meant something more than Asher's heritage pushing through.

She had certainly felt companionship with Asher at those times when she hadn't been so guarded; Hermione enjoyed her company and her conversation. And no one could deny that Asher, the plain young girl, had grown into a beautiful young woman. Hermione pictured her oval face framed by the long black hair, her fascinating hazel eyes changing colors in the firelight, her long fingers gracefully stirring a potion, and felt a blush rise in her cheeks as she remembered how close their faces had been, how their noses had touched so briefly.

Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder at the darkened bedroom, then sat back again on the couch. She realized now that Asher's cold act had been just that- a last attempt to drive Hermione away. If she really was in love with Hermione-- what a strange thing to think about-- then she was also afraid of what she might do to her. But under the effects of the potion, wouldn't she be alright?

Hermione didn't have an answer for that, and more tidbits flitted through her thoughts. The sleepiness that the potion caused would explain why Asher looked tired all the time. The response from Yorke Academy of Sorcery now made complete sense: Asher had gone to school halfway across the country from there. Cornelius Fudge being her uncle explained why she had transferred to Hogwarts, and Headmistress McGonagall's expertise in the history of succubi explained-- somewhat-- why she and Asher were so close.

There were still little unconnected threads dangling, she knew, but her eyelids felt heavy, and she leaned her head back on the cushy couch, vowing just to rest them for a moment. She did not remember falling asleep.

Hermione was abruptly woken by a loud _CRACK!_ She opened her eyes blearily, not recognizing where she was. She heard movement, the clank of something metal meeting wood, and then a shrill voice called out, "Breakfast, Mistress! It is time to be waking up!" The sounds moved to Hermione's left, and then there was shocked gasp: her eyes met the startled stare of what appeared to be a house-elf. "MISTRESS!" it shrieked, streaking out of Hermione's line of sight. " _INTRUDER!_ Arm yourself, Mistress Asher!" Hermione stifled a squeal as there was another loud bang and she saw ropes scream through the air towards her, snaking around her hands and feet and then wrapping themselves all the way around the couch, effectively trapping her.

As Hermione sat there, bound and uncomfortable, she realized she was in Asher's quarters; she must have fallen asleep on the couch. Hermione now discerned that they must be at the top of a tower, taking in the circular form of the room and the pointed ceiling above the rafters. She turned her head to see a fire roaring merrily in the fireplace, and smelled what was undeniably coffee. She looked the other way, and in the morning light she saw what she had not the night before: A tall, gilded mirror on a stand, sitting between two bookcases, half covered with a sheet. She could not see behind her, but heard movement, and glanced at the mirror again. In the part unconcealed by the cloth, the top half of Asher was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, hair disheveled, with her wand in her hand, staring open-mouthed at something the mirror did not show.

In the reflection, her lips moved, though barely. "She didn't leave," Hermione heard her say faintly, though astonishment rang unmistakable in her voice. Then, more substantially, she said, "Winky, release her at once, please. She hasn't done anything to harm me. Physically," she added with a downward twist of her lips.

The ropes disappeared a moment later with another loud CRACK!, and Hermione could move again. She flexed her wrists with a grimace, then turned on the couch to look at Asher. The other woman was standing there in the orange t-shirt Hermione had seen her wear her first day at Hogwarts, though it was holey and worn, almost yellow with age, and now seemed to read "Pock Loser 9!" Hermione looked away again almost immediately as she realized the only other thing Asher was wearing was a pair of cobalt blue and rather revealing panties, and her face grew uncomfortably warm. She focused, instead, on the house-elf standing halfway between them, who was clothed in a tea towel emblazoned, not with the Hogwarts crest, but with one Hermione didn't recognize. She was gazing rather defiantly back.

"Glad to see you finally found employment, Winky," Hermione said pleasantly, trying to break the tension, remembering that Winky had called Asher "Mistress."

"Thank you, Professor Granger!" Winky squeaked, her round face breaking into a glowing smile. "Winky is most happy when she is working, Professor Granger, and Mistress Asher is knowing how ridiculous it is for house-elves to be receiving payment!" she said, her face twisting in disgust at the very thought.

Hermione lifted her eyebrows at Asher, ignoring her state of undress, her own face forming into a frown. Asher looked at her tiredly, aware of how Hermione felt about house-elves, then waved her hand at a tiny table that held a steaming breakfast. "Don't look at me like that, I'll explain while we eat." To Winky, she said, "Another helping, please, and some tea instead of coffee for the Professor, I think." Winky hurried around the couch and vanished through a small opening by the fireplace, reemerging moments later with another tray that held some bacon, eggs, toast, and a mug and kettle.

Asher sat at the small table in the only chair, then with a silent wave of her wand conjured another. Hermione sat wordlessly, though she did say "Thanks" to Winky, who had placed the tray of food in front of her. Winky bowed and retreated. The smell of the bacon wafted to her, and her stomach rumbled. She didn't touch it, however, choosing to look across at Asher, who had put on a green plaid robe as beat up as her shirt. "Explain yourself," she said finally.

Asher didn't need to ask what she was talking about. "You know the trouble Winky was in," she said, picking up her mug and taking a sip of the coffee. "Getting drunk on butterbeer, depressed over her status as a free elf. She hardly did anything in the kitchens here, she was so down, and knowing her work ethic, I knew it was a very bad sign." She picked up her fork and knife, cutting a piece from the waffle on the plate before her, which was already drenched in syrup. "I offered her employment, on the condition that she stopped drinking; she was more than happy to accept, and now she is the most content I have ever seen her. An excellent cook, as well," she added, pointing with her fork to Hermione's plate. "You should eat that before it gets too cold."

Hermione grudgingly did so, unable to ignore the noises coming from her middle any longer. She was glad, at least, that Asher didn't seem to be as hostile to her as the night before, although this comfortable companionship seemed too good to be true: Asher clearly did not take betrayals of trust lightly. After a few mouthfuls, she swallowed and asked, "What was the crest on her towel?"

Asher gave a sad sort of smile, meeting Hermione's eyes for a fleeting moment before staring at her coffee. "My father's, of course, was the Fudge family crest. Very pompous, and not at all fitting for him, and certainly not for me, as I don't carry the name and I am nothing like Cornelius. So, I made one up. A steaming cauldron, for my father, sitting in front of the Mirror-" she gestured over to the space between the two bookcases- "for my mother, on a background of bright blue, which I'm sure you've realized by now," she said in a slightly amused tone, "is my favorite color."

Hermione had followed her gaze to the mirror, not hearing Asher's reference to seeing her in her underwear. She looked at the mirror under the sheet with new comprehension, awe washing over her. "So that's... that's the Mirror of Erised," she said, her voice hushed. "Why does the Mirror represent your mother?"

"It's a family heirloom," Asher said simply.

Hermione wrenched her gaze from the shrouded figure of the mirror to look at Asher. "Your family?"

Asher nodded. "Yes, mine, on my mother's side. You were quite right about the connection between the name of the Mirror and my last name."

Hermione protested, "But no one knows the history of the Mirror! I've read every book, searched for every reference.."

Asher's face grew solemn. "I noticed." Hermione cringed, remembering when Asher had seen her reading about the mirror in the library. "But I know. My mother told me the story of its creation."

Seeing Hermione's look of great interest, her voice became distant, her tone professorial as she began, "Back in the late 1700s, my grandmother, Meriana, met my grandfather. She had been forced to take a last name, as it was suspicious for a woman to not have one at that time in the United States. She fashioned 'Erised' as that name, as it was 'desire'-- the source of her power-- backwards, and she did not care to take a name that already existed, feeling that she was above mortal names. My grandfather was besotted with her, of course; her power made it so. But even after she became pregnant with my mother, he stayed, which was most unusual, because succubi rarely manage to impregnate themselves without killing their partner."

Hermione nearly choked on her tea, making strangled noises as she attempted not to spray it everywhere. "Killing?"

Asher nodded, her face somber. "The energy they need to make a child is enormous. But he was a wizard, not a Muggle, and he managed to survive it, though his powers were very much weakened. She told him what she was, and he, in his desperation to 'save' her, attempted to create a device that, when she beheld it, would cure her of her heart's desire.. which was, of course, to seduce and feed on men." She frowned. "His abilities lessened as they were, he only succeeded in creating a device, a mirror, that showed it."

"It worked, for a while; he planted her in front of the Mirror, she looked into it and saw herself feeding on an endless line of men, and she was satisfied. She remained there for years, unable to tear her eyes away, and my grandfather made sure she ate and drank, looking after her health." Asher grimaced suddenly. "But a true succubus can only go so long without feeding, and, her instincts overwhelming her, she pulled herself from the temptation of the images in the Mirror, attacked my grandfather, drained him, and left, taking my mother with her."

"The Mirror remained in his home, and as he had no will and no legal next of kin, was later scooped up at an auction of his belongings by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who was there on holiday. It has been here ever since." Asher emerged somewhat from the strange trance she had been in, then continued, "Dumbledore knew that there must be a connection between my name and the Mirror's, just as you did. You see, all succubi of my line were required to take some form of the name of the first, who was called Meridiana. But when my grandmother took a last name, the enchantment somehow changed." She smiled, her eyes distant, as if seeing something Hermione could not. "My father tried to give me his name, but every time I wrote 'Fudge', it would change to 'Erised'. So that was that." Asher raised the mug of coffee to her lips, but realized it was empty and put it back down. "Anyway, Dumbledore asked me if I knew about the Mirror, and when he realized that my grandfather had made it, gave it to me. I asked him to keep it safe, because I was still in school at the time. But I reclaimed it when I came back to teach, and put it here, in my quarters, so that no one else would find it and be tempted by what they saw."

Hermione sat in the following silence, absorbing this information with renewed pity of Asher's lot in life. All the women in her lineage were killers, users of men, and Asher might have turned out that way. She had to live with the knowledge of her heritage, and she kept it between herself and other people, afraid to become close to anyone for fear of hurting them. She lifted her gaze to Asher's face, which was unreadable, wondering what Asher's heart's desire was. She hesitated, then asked, her voice unintentionally quiet, "What do you see when you look in the Mirror?”

It seemed Hermione had asked for too much trust too soon after breaking it; Asher had apparently only told her the story of the Mirror because it was history and therefore impersonal, and did not answer this question. She looked away and refused to meet Hermione's eyes again, poking at her half-finished meal. Neither of them said anything for a long time, and the quietness of the room became awkward. When it was clear that the other woman wasn't going to speak, Hermione excused herself with a murmured apology and descended the ladder to the dungeons, her chest feeling tight.


	10. A Delicate Balance

As January passed, Hermione tread carefully around Asher, aware that she might not be welcome back in her life just yet. She was regretful of the way she had acted, and told off Crookshanks-- who she knew could understand her just fine-- quite harshly, making sure to mention that if she heard any rumor whatsoever that he was hanging around Asher, she would stop giving him the restorative potion. She was also a bit uncomfortable around the other woman, as she had long since concluded that Asher had romantic feelings for her, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. It wasn't that she was bigoted- her own uncle had been in a steady relationship with his partner for years, and they came to every Christmas dinner they could. It was more that she didn't know how she was supposed to act when the attention was focused on her.

She determined, after much thinking, that she should conduct herself as naturally as possible on the occasions she was with the Potions professor, which was much easier said than done. She was still hesitant to ask any personal questions, not wanting to seem nosy, and the few times they did get together for dinner or drinks, Hermione ran out of topics quickly, and the silences that followed were, at least to her, awkward. Asher, however, didn't seem to notice them at all, and for some reason that left Hermione feeling a bit miffed, as if the raven-haired woman was merely putting up with her.

Still, she tried to rebuild their friendship; she found that it was important to her. Asher was highly intelligent, Hermione's age, and shared many memories of when they had attended Hogwarts, making her, even in her guarded state, much more relatable than the other professors. Besides, despite her great revelation of a few weeks before, Hermione still didn't know much about how Asher actually operated except for why she kept herself at a distance.

It was understandable... to a point. After all, her mother had killed her father when she lost control of herself, but _she had failed to take the potion_. Asher had an alarm set for it and carried a phial with her everywhere, paranoid almost to a fault. From the way it seemed, her unwanted power only came into effect when she had feelings for the person, but she had only lost control on Hermione _after she had failed to take the Suppression Draught._ Hermione believed that her fear was blinding her to the truth- she was safe, even around someone she loved, as long as she took the potion.

At dinner with Asher in Hogsmeade at the end of the month, Hermione stuffed her mouth with forkful after forkful of food to stall for time. She was going to attempt to bring up this conclusion she had come to, but to do so, she would also have to talk about Asher's feelings for her. The other woman had never explicitly stated that she had them, and given Hermione's discomfort and confusion about the whole thing, she knew it was going to be a prickly sort of conversation, and furthermore, she had no idea how Asher would react to her bringing it up. Well, she had an idea that involved the other woman shutting down completely, but she was hoping for the best.

"Hungry tonight," the Potions professor observed with amusement curling her lips.

Hermione hurried to chew and swallow, nearly choking. "Yes, well. Er." She had decided that with Asher, honesty and openness was the best policy, and steeled herself for her next words. "I wanted to talk to you about why you keep people away, and why it's a bit silly, but I couldn't think of a way to start." Hermione watched the other woman carefully for her reaction.

Asher blinked rapidly, though her face remained impassive otherwise. She glanced briefly around the Three Broomsticks to check that there wasn't anyone sitting close by. "Did you now?" she asked cautiously. The only sign that betrayed her nervousness was the big swallow she took of her One-Two.

"Yes," Hermione said firmly, deciding to plunge on while she had the black-haired woman's attention. "The only times you've lost control with someone you, er--" she paused a brief moment-- "cared about was when you hadn't taken the potion." Before she lost her nerve, she said, "With the barmaid and with me."

Asher had gone very still, her face fixed in a pleasant but blank expression. She didn't speak for a long moment, then said quietly, her tone deadly calm, "I have never lost control."

Hermione instantly realized her error. "Sorry. I meant 'the only times you came close', I'm sorry." To Hermione's relief, the other woman seemed to accept this apology, and relaxed just a fraction. "What I'm trying to say is that you haven't had any-- er-- close calls when you kept up with it."

"It?" Asher asked, her tone light, her face still empty.

"The potion," Hermione said nervously. "When you've taken it, you're fine. Around me, anyway, and since it only seems to come out around someone you love.." Her stomach did a strange twitch, but she ignored it.

The tension Asher had released was back instantly. "I don't recall ever mentioning I felt any particular way about you," she said, no trace of any emotion coming across in her voice.

Hermione sighed; she had thought it was going rather well, but Asher had now put up a wall. "Asher, please don't insult my intelligence. I figured it out weeks ago."

"Always the little detective," Asher said rather coldly, folding her arms and looking away.

"Hard not to be when you've put all the clues in front of me yourself!" Hermione snapped. "Mentioning how difficult it was to control yourself with the barmaid because you loved her, how you never went back, your power coming out when you were with me in my office, and then how you avoided me for months afterward. I'm not stupid, Ash!" She leaned across the table, looking at the other woman until she managed to catch her gaze. "I'm trying to help you," she said in a softer tone, "and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't shut me out, please."

Asher looked away, fiddling with the little straws in her drink. She was silent for a long time, appearing lost in thought. Seeming to come to a decision, she slammed the rest of the drink back and signaled Madame Rosmerta for another. "Alright then, help," she said shortly.

Hermione looked at her with exasperation. "I can only help you as much as you're willing to be helped, you know," she said, sounding distinctly annoyed.

"Just talk, okay?" Asher said shortly, taking the drink from Madame Rosmerta without so much as a thank you.

Hermione watched her carefully for a moment, taking in her reaction. Asher was looking quite unsettled by this whole conversation; she had already finished half of the new drink-- her third-- and was scowling uncharacteristically. The muscles in her jaw were clenching and unclenching, and she looked as if she was forcing the rest of her body into stillness. The Transfiguration professor realized that Asher was fighting herself, caught between the urge to push Hermione away again and accept her help. Hermione also realized that, in general, Asher tried never to let anyone catch her in a moment of weakness: She was proud. Accepting Hermione's help would be admitting that she needed it, and her harsh words had been the best concession she had been able to make.

But she was trying; Hermione softened, looking at her with admiration as she realized how hard it must have been to concede even as little as she had. Slowly, carefully, she outlined her conclusions and how she had come to them, hoping that something in what she said would get through to the woman across the table so she could stop being so lonely. She finished by saying, "I know you don't believe it, but people are a lot more accepting than you think, Asher. You have to learn how to trust that they won't-- hey!"

Asher had stood from her chair, and was now proceeding at a run to the door, though her progress was somewhat slowed by the fact that she was clearly drunk. Hermione stood, as well, intending to follow her, but Madame Rosmerta's hand was suddenly on her arm. She turned to the innkeeper, the expression on her face demanding why she was being restrained.

"If I know anything about her from serving her drinks and food, Professor, it's that she's slow to change," Rosmerta said gently. "Give her time."

Hermione reluctantly settled herself back in the chair she had just vacated, unable to shake the hollow feeling that she had just destroyed any chance of regaining Asher's friendship.

* * *

 

**Asher's POV**

 

Asher accepted Hermione's invitation to the Three Broomsticks with the usual trepidation. She had once again warred with the annoying part of herself that wanted to be in the other professor's company as much as possible, arguing that she knew far too much already, and she was bound to break her trust again, and there was no chance of being with her, not after... everything.

But she found herself unable to say no: Hermione was fascinating to her for more than one reason. When she felt relaxed, their conversations seemed perfect; there weren't many other people with whom Asher could discuss such a variety of topics so intelligently. Hermione, like her, had a hunger for knowledge and understanding, and she had been delighted when she found that they shared many common interests.

Then there was the fact that Asher had been harboring a rather brutal crush on Hermione since they had both returned to Hogwarts to finish their education. She had recognized that Hermione, too, had been broken by what she had experienced in her life, and though they had rarely spoken during that time, she had felt a kinship with the battle-worn bookworm.

After the first months of teaching, however, her crush had turned quickly into something more serious: she admired how Hermione handled her awestruck students with firm kindness, and the compassion she had for the house-elves, as well as her enthusiasm for passionate debate. Aware of Hermione's history with Ron Weasley and the unlikelihood of anything happening between them, she had kept it to herself, as was her habit. But Hermione had pushed for friendship, and Asher had been unable to resist the chance to be around her. She had even started to trust her, which was not something she generally did.

All had seemed to be going well until the day Hermione had shut herself in her office after an emotional class discussion, and Asher couldn't stop herself from going to check on her out of concern. She still scolded herself about the incident; how she could have forgotten her potion, even when Hermione was so tantalizingly close to her, holding onto her so tightly.. She had fled the scene, mortified and determined to resign, but Minerva hadn't let her, taking her on a guilt trip about Dumbledore's trust.

So she had stayed, but she resolved to keep away from Hermione Granger to avoid putting the other woman in danger and torturing herself with the unattainable any more. To her chagrin, it was more challenging than she had expected, as the Transfiguration professor had seemed to make it her mission to catch Asher's attention. But she had persevered, finally, and managed to avoid Hermione, if not entirely her cat, who had started lurking about her classroom in the dungeons.

Until the library. The sight of Hermione researching the Mirror still caused her pangs of betrayal; the bushy-haired professor had been snooping into her private affairs without asking, behind her back. And the scene that had followed.. Asher's chest felt tight when she recalled how rude she had been to Hermione, and she had to suppress the urge to hide in her tower and never come down when she remembered how much she had revealed about herself. She had never told anyone, with the exception of Minerva, that much about herself, and certainly not anyone she could consider her peer.

The morning after her outburst, she had been shocked to find Hermione asleep on her couch, even after she had asked her to leave. She had expected her to leave; nearly everyone else had in some way. Her father was dead by her mother's hand, and her mother locked up in prison. Her uncle had signed guardianship over to Dumbledore after he resigned from the Ministry, claiming that his reputation would be damaging to her, even though no one but Dumbledore and the other professors had known she was his niece. And then Dumbledore had died. She had trusted in all of these people, and they had all failed her. But Hermione had stayed.

It was this in combination with how she felt about Hermione that kept her from being able to shut out the other woman entirely. So she now sat in the Three Broomsticks with the Transfiguration professor, who was unusually quiet, shovelling food in her mouth with an intensity Asher had rarely observed. "Hungry tonight," she said, repressing a grin at the other woman's bulging cheeks, which made her look a bit like a squirrel. It was adorable.

"Yes, well. Er," Hermione choked out after trying to empty her mouth. "I wanted to talk to you about why you keep people away, and why it's a bit silly, but I couldn't think of a way to start."

Asher stared at the other woman, who was watching her for a reaction, blinking as she took in this new forwardness. This was the first serious topic they had broached this evening, and boy was it a doozy; she felt an alarm bell ringing inside somewhere. She gulped some of her drink to prepare herself. "Did you now?"

"Yes," Hermione said, sounding determined. "The only times you've lost control with someone you, er--" there was a short moment of silence-- "cared about was when you hadn't taken the potion." Her heart began racing; this was far more personal than she wanted it to be. "With the barmaid and with me," Hermione rushed on, and Asher froze, feeling her stomach plunge to somewhere beneath the floor. Her mind raced as she fought to appear calm; she hadn't said a word about caring about Hermione, not to anyone, and here Hermione was, stating it as if it was yesterday's news. Panicking, she thought rapidly; she needed something to drive her off course. Managing to keep her voice steady, she said quietly, "I have never lost control." When Hermione hurriedly apologized for the wording, she felt relieved. At least she had managed to get her to focus on something else.

"What I'm trying to say is that you haven't had any-- er-- close calls when you kept up with it," Hermione continued.

Damnit, would the woman not let it go? Asher desperately feigned ignorance. "It?"

"The potion," Hermione explained. "When you've taken it, you're fine. Around me, anyway, and since it only seems to come out around someone you love.."

Asher froze up again. How could Hermione know this? She had been careful, so careful. In the most unrevealing tone she could muster, she said, "I don't recall ever mentioning I felt any particular way about you." She had to stop this conversation. It could only end badly. She had never planned on telling the other woman how she felt; she had to get Hermione to believe she was mistaken without actually lying to her.

She heard the sigh from the other side of the table, and the other woman said tiredly, "Asher, please don't insult my intelligence. I figured it out weeks ago."

"Always the little detective," she said harshly, trying to use guilt, anything, to get Hermione off this subject. It was taking everything she had not to let the blush creep to her cheeks, and she quickly focused on a nearby chair.

She fought back a flinch when Hermione lost her temper. "Hard not to be when you've put all the clues in front of me yourself! Mentioning how difficult it was to control yourself with the barmaid because you loved her, how you never went back, your power coming out when you were with me in my office, and then how you avoided me for months afterward. I'm not stupid, Ash!"

Asher stayed quiet, completely out of diversionary tactics; they weren't working anyway. She cursed Hermione's terrible, brilliant one-track mind. The silence became long, and despite her embarassment she couldn't keep herself from looking at the woman she cared for any longer. Meeting her eyes hesitantly, she expected anger, but saw genuine caring there instead. "I'm trying to help you," Hermione said softly, almost tenderly, "and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't shut me out, please."

Asher looked away, fiddling with the little straws in her drink. When Hermione spoke to her in that gentle voice, it was hard to resist anything she said. The dark-haired woman knew that she was hoping for too much, reading too far into Hermione's tone and hearing something that wasn't there. Still, something made her recklessly finish her drink and say, "Alright then, help." She regretted it almost immediately, and caught Madame Rosmerta's gaze and communicated that she wanted another. Would that be her second or third? She didn't know. She just knew she wanted to be drunk for this conversation that she had, for some reason, invited.

Hermione looked at her with exasperation. "I can only help you as much as you're willing to be helped, you know," she said, sounding distinctly annoyed.

Asher snatched the drink from Rosmerta. "Just talk, okay?" she snapped, downing half the drink in one swallow. She tried to be still and calm, but she was too tense; her teeth ground against each other. She wanted to run from this conversation so badly it made her head ache. Or maybe that was the liquor. She stayed in her seat only because Hermione had sounded so concerned, and her weakness for the brunette knew no bounds.

As the alcohol hit her, she realized, against her will, that it would be nice to be able to trust people, and trust herself around them. Maybe Hermione was right. But, she argued, if she had friends, they would ask questions, questions she wasn't willing to answer. If she had friends, they would wonder why she never spoke of her parents, they would ask why she had transferred schools. Friends pried.

Hermione began to talk, and only fragments of what she said washed over Asher, who was locked in a fierce battle between her need for companionship and her need to protect herself from the judgment of others. She finished her drink, half-listening. "--people are more accepting than you think, Asher," Hermione was saying. "You just have to learn how to trust that they won't--"

But this was too much for Asher. When Hermione had been reviewing the known facts, she had been able to stand it, but now she was into supposition, and Asher had learned the hard way not to trust people. Her own father, the person she had trusted most in the world, had kept the secret of what she was from her until the day he had died. Something her uncle had said to her father once echoed through her mind: "With her mother's legacy behind her, Darius, the child will be powerful-- and dangerous. You must find a way to regulate her moods, for if she inherits her mother's dark leanings..." She hadn't known exactly what he had been talking about at the time, but Cornelius's fear of her had been clear when she had gone to live with him. He hadn't even bothered to tell her himself what her "mother's legacy" was, leaving the task to Dumbledore, and though she had tried to believe in his good intentions, he had passed her off to Dumbledore at his first chance.

No, it was dangerous to trust, and as Asher launched herself from her chair, staggering out of the inn and away from Hermione, she knew that the other woman would never understand.


	11. What is Hidden

 

Asher sobered up only slightly on the long walk back to the castle. She wasn't staggering anymore, at least: she had managed to reduce her pace to a consistent stumble. She hoped she could steady herself by the time she got to the doors, because it wasn't after curfew yet, and she didn't think she could stand to be seen by a student, wobbling as she was. Asher's mother had possessed superhuman strength and a high metabolism-- and therefore a high tolerance for alcohol-- and had passed on a healthy amount of it to her daughter. However, the beverage Asher so favored was not what anyone could call a "girly drink," and she had had three of them, the last two rather rapidly, as she recalled. The only light at the end of the tunnel was that in a few hours she would be completely sober.

Or perhaps that wasn't such a great thing. Right now Hermione's words were in a tangled, incomprehensible jumble, and that was safer. The moment she could think clearly again she would string them together the way they were supposed to be, no matter how much she tried to stop herself. No, that wouldn't do, and as she waved her wand feebly to call down the ladder to her tower, she struggled to remember if she'd thrown out the bottle of Merlot her uncle had sent her for Christmas.

The ladder went up four and a half stories, and after swaying dangerously over the sides on the bottom-most rungs, she was glad for the narrow stone passageway it went through once she had reached the stone ceiling of her classroom. The climb had winded her in her inebriated state, and when she had dragged herself from the ladder and retracted it once more, she collapsed on the hard stone.

She closed her eyes, deciding whether or not she ought to just take a nap. Her waffling was interrupted by a tapping on the window, and she groaned. _Damn that bird._ She hoisted herself from the floor on shaky arms, the left actually falling out from under her for a moment. Finally, she managed to get to her feet, and, tripping on the way to the window, she released the catch and it swung open.

"About damned time." An enormous magpie with brilliant teal plumage flew in, crossing the room with a swoop and landing on his favored perch, the Mirror. "Do you realize how long I was waiting out there?"

Asher closed the window and turned to face the bird, losing her balance and catching herself on the casement. She made a show of rolling her eyes, and said, "There's a little thing called the owlery, Amon." The words may have come out slurred. She hiccuped, scowling at the unwelcome sound. "I do believe you know where it is."

The bird ruffled his feathers in a display of irritation. "And in case you haven't noticed by now, I am not an owl." He tilted his head so that one beady eye was staring right at her. "Or maybe you wouldn't... Merlin's spectacles, are you drunk?"

"No," Asher mumbled, walking a bit unsteadily to her desk and pulling a drawer open, looking for that bottle of wine. Others watching her with the bird might have concluded that she was not only intoxicated, but crazy; however, Amon belonged to a group of magical creatures known only as Adepts. They were exceedingly rare, and could be any species; the general theory was that if they spent enough of their gestational period in a highly magical area, they gained abilities that corresponded to that place. No one knew why one animal in a nest or litter gained an ability and the others didn't. Asher had heard of a snake whose mother had nested in Gringotts, and had an unnerving ability to find its way through traps and mazes. Then there was the case of a puppy born in a Canadian wizard hospital that guided the new arrivals to the proper ward to take care of their problem without any help from humans. Amon had hatched from a nest in the eaves of a wizarding library, and he had the ability to understand human speech, as well as make humans understand what he was saying instead of the call of a magpie. However, he was very choosy about who he let hear his words; Asher thought this was a blessing, because he was also very opinionated.

"You are!" the bird cried, launching himself from the Mirror to circle her head in dizzying swoops, letting out a chattering, scolding sound that Asher knew was laughter. "Don't you know Madame Rosmerta named that particular beverage after a fighting tactic, not a dance?"

Asher blinked a few times, and then she got it. One-Two was the name of the drink; One-Two-Three was the cadence for a waltz. "Funny, Amon. Clever little bird. Polly wanna cracker?" she asked sarcastically. The bird didn't answer, only kept cackling as he continued to spiral around the black-haired woman. She looked up; the Venomous Tentacula was following the magpie's progress with a swaying vine, looking very much like a snake ready to pounce. "Damnit, Amon, quit flitting around and get on my desk before Vlad mistakes you for his dinner."

"Oh, quite right," the bird said, alighting quickly on the miniature cauldron she used to hold quills and turning an eye to watch the plant.

Asher absentmindedly tossed a toad from a small habitat in the bottom desk drawer into the air, and when it didn't come back down, she said, "You should be safe for now." She closed the drawer, propping an arm on her waist and surveying the room. Where had she put that damned wine?

"Whatcha dooooin'?" the bird asked in a sing-song voice, following her gaze around the room.

"Fending off the dragon that is sobriety," Asher replied dryly, her eyes falling on something poking out from under the couch. She hurried over and closed a hand on it, sliding it out to see.. "Yes! Wine!" She raised a fist in the air and grabbed the bottle, pulling her wand from her robes and pointing it at the cork.

Amon hid his head under a wing. His voice came from behind it sounding rather muffled. "If you hit me with that I will sic your own plant on you."

She popped the cork with a sharp jab of her wand, ignoring him as it sailed out of view and taking a swig of the wine straight from the bottle. Dropping onto the couch, she stretched out with the bottle braced in the crook of her arm, resting her slightly aching head and taking occasional sips of wine.

"You know," came the irritating voice of the magpie, "you're going to have to drink faster than that to forget about Harriet."

"Hermione," Asher corrected automatically.

"Whatever her name is. She's really gotten to you, you know. I've never seen someone look so heartsick when reading a book about Transfiguration."

Asher felt a wave of irritation rise and looked for something to throw at the bird, but had nothing but her wand and the wine bottle, neither of which she was eager to part with. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You never want to talk about anything when it has to do with feelings," the bird observed. "Other people do, I've heard them. Want to give it a go?"

"No," Asher said sulkily. _He carries my letters and packages when owls won't, and he trusts me,_ she thought. _No murder. Bad Ash._ She closed her eyes, but was overwhelmed with images of Hermione and a case of the spins and quickly opened them again. Amon was now perched on the back of the couch, staring at her with one black eye. "What?" she asked with exasperation.

"I was only going to suggest that you tighten your hold on that bottle before the whole thing spills out, but I'll just hush up."

Asher looked down. The bottle had fallen into a horizontal position and a trickle of wine was pouring onto the floor. She cursed and righted the bottle, but the damage was done: there was less than a goblet's-worth left in it. She lifted it to her lips and drained the rest, then let the bottle slip to the floor. "Shards," she cursed.

"You'd have to throw it for that, I think," Amon quipped.

"You were born in a library, don't you read? McCaffrey was the first woman inducted into the science fiction hall of fame."

"A proper library, not those clumsy Muggle collections." He made the bird version of a sniff. "Friendly dragons, indeed!" the magpie scolded.

Asher, who had spent a lot of her childhood in the local Muggle library and enjoyed herself immensely, did not dignify this with a reply. The bird also fell silent, and she was left with room to think. Hermione's voice, so soft. _I'm trying to help you._ The hesitant, almost loving look she had had on her face when she'd said it made Asher's chest hurt. Hermione had been so convinced that she was right, that Asher was fine when she kept up with the Suppression Draught. What she didn't know was how good it had felt when Asher hadn't taken it. It had been as if everyone's base emotions were hovering in the air around them; they each had their own smell and taste, and to Asher, it had been like a hot meal. The hard part was resisting the urge to eat.

Asher knew from experience that if she fed on one person, just one, her magic and strength would increase temporarily. Once, in the time before she was a professor, she had gotten rather drunk and forgotten to take her potion. A man had approached her in the bar, and more out of curiosity than anything, she had gone to bed with him, unable to stop her power from feeding on his lust. When she woke, sober and completely naked, she had panicked and felt his neck for a pulse. It was there, slow but steady, and she had Apparated back to her hidey-hole on the spot. The spells she had worked for the next two days had been especially powerful: She'd Summoned a book with so much unintentional force that it had knocked her unconscious.

How Asher knew that it would be different with Hermione was an instinctual thing. She did not truly desire men, so what she took from them was small. It would not be so with the Transfiguration professor: Even when she was determined to avoid her, Asher felt drawn to her when they were in the same room. If she didn't take the potion and touched Hermione again, if Hermione was in the least bit willing.. It would be bad.

A chime went off, stopping that line of thought. "Time to take your medicine," sang the magpie, who had once again settled on the Mirror.

Asher scowled at him, easing up from her prone position on the couch with a groan. She crossed to the mantle, then stared at it. There were no phials of potion there. Where had she put them? She patted her robe pockets, and then the pockets of her jeans, but there was no telltale bump. Hurrying to her desk, stumbling only once, she opened the top right drawer, her other usual place to put them. It held only stacks of clean parchment and an ink bottle. "Damnit."

"Over heeeere," Amon said.

Ah, yes. She had gone to straighten the sheet over the Mirror the other day and set the phials on the bookshelf to free her hands, she recalled. She went there now, reaching for one of the phials. Suddenly, the magpie took off from the top of the mirror, the sheet clenched in his talons as he pulled it from the glass.

Asher was standing in just the right place to trigger the Mirror's effects. Before she had finished her schooling, the Mirror had always shown her standing between her parents, both very much alive and unimprisoned. But now she saw herself smiling with genuine warmth. There were no bags under her eyes and no sign of sleepiness on her face; there was no hint of a potion bottle waiting to be drunk, no cauldron emitting a silver glow. Her hands were unscarred. Tucked under her arm was Hermione, appearing utterly content to simply be close to Asher. As she watched, the two of them kissed, one of the brunette's hands reaching up to entangle itself in wavy black hair. When they broke apart, they looked just as anyone would after an embrace with their loved one: happy and slightly out of breath. Hermione did not drop dead; Asher did not change into a predator. They were normal.

Her heart filled with longing as she gazed at her reflection, the fake Hermione looking at the imitation of herself tenderly. But she was just that, fake, and so was the version of Asher; she would never be completely human. She would have scars on her hands for the rest of her life from supplying the blood needed for the Suppression Draught, and as long as she took it, she would always look weary. _And Hermione will never look at me like that._ Her throat constricted at she stared at the Mirror and its unattainable reflection.

Tears staining her cheeks, she wrenched herself from the Mirror and yanked the sheet over it once more. "Damn meddling bird!" she snapped at Amon over her shoulder as she stared at the now-shrouded figure, her voice coming out high-pitched and thready. "What the hell is wrong with you? You knew perfectly well what it would show me. Are you trying to torture me?" She unstoppered one of the phials and drank, the chalky consistency of the potion making her struggle to get it past the lump in her throat.

"Consider it a reality check. Half of what you see is impossible, true, but I think you're closing yourself to the other possibilities before you simply out of habit, instead of reason," the magpie said, sounding annoyingly logical.

Asher scowled, leaning her head against the bookshelf in response to the sudden fatigue the potion brought on. "She obviously likes men, Amon. She dated that Weasley idiot for years."

"Unfortunately," came a voice that definitely was not Amon's, "it took me far too long to realize that idiots are not at all my type."

Asher whirled around, pointing her wand out of reflex, even though she would recognize that voice anywhere. She did manage to note that she was now only slightly buzzed, instead of drunk. She stared at Hermione for a long moment, wondering how much she had heard and just how crazy she had judged Asher to be, talking to a bird. "How did you get in?" she asked instead.

"The password was too easy. Perhaps you should dig a little deeper than your favorite color," Hermione said, though not unkindly. "Now would you please point that elsewhere?"

Asher lowered her wand, embarrassed. "Sorry," she mumbled. How had she not heard the other woman climbing up the ladder? "What do you want?"

Hermione ignored this question, walking over to the palm tree and examining the dirt it was rooted in. "You transfigured the stone into its base elements?" she questioned, looking up to where Asher stood.

Asher blinked. This was what Hermione wanted to talk about? But considering the alternative, she would take it. "Yes, with a semicircular Perimeter Charm to limit its spread so I could determine the area without going stone by stone or worrying about it dropping through the floor."

Hermione nodded appreciatively. "Most people wouldn't have thought of that. How long did it take you?"

"Just a few moments," Asher said slowly, wondering at the line of questioning.

"A few moments?" Hermione asked incredulously. Noticing Asher's nonplussed expression, she explained, "Most people would have to work at it for an hour, if they could manage it at all!"

"Oh," Asher said hesitantly. "I wasn't aware."

"Wasn't awa-- oh, for pete's sake, Asher, that's an incredibly complex transfiguration coupled with a fine-tuned charm!" She sounded almost angry.

Asher held up her hands. "Alright, alright, if you say so. Geez."

"I-- oh, just give me your wand," Hermione said with obvious frustration.

Asher handed it over, supplying weakly, "Pine, eleven inches, unicorn hair."

Hermione looked at her with lifted eyebrows. "Pine? A very adaptive wand wood, I've read. It likes to make new magic. That would explain it." She scrutinized it carefully for a moment, then held it out for Asher to take back.

The black-haired woman only stared at Hermione, her hand outstretched for her wand absentmindedly. She was always amazed at the tidbits of information the Transfiguration professor could recall. She felt the wand touch her palm and closed her fingers automatically, brushing Hermione's as she did. Blushing furiously-- wasn't the alcohol out of her system yet?-- she stuffed the wand in the pocket of her robes, looking away and missing the pink color of the other woman's cheeks.

Hermione asked suddenly, "I thought you said animals didn't like you?"

Asher yawned, not understanding for a moment, then followed Hermione's gaze to Amon, who was sitting innocently on her desk, preening his feathers. "Oh. Well, he's the exception. When I was a kid, I tried to get the animals to come to me, but they wouldn't. I'd bring bread and seeds with me on hikes into the forest near where I lived. He's the only one who took to me, and he's been following me around ever since. He's a bit of a pest."

"Hey!" Amon protested, flapping his wings in indignation. "I give excellent counsel!"

Hermione, of course, heard only the chattering caw that magpies made. "I see. He's rather large for his kind, isn't he?"

"Yep. Huge," Asher said, enjoying the miffed reaction she received from the bird. "Positively enormous. He could probably stand to lose a bit of weight."

"That is really enough!" the bird said. "I am a magnificent specimen! One of a kind! Other birds would give their left tail-feathers to be like me!"

"Otherwise, he's pretty unremarkable," Asher continued, stifling a giggle at the sight of the magpie's puffed out chest feathers deflating.

"Well, he seems to understand you, at least," Hermione said, eyeing the bird's reactions.

"One of the few so privileged," the bird muttered. "Would you just kiss the girl already? This is sickening."

Asher gave a strained smile. "Excuse me a moment." She snatched the bird up in her hands, carried him over to the window, opened it, and dumped him unceremoniously into the air. "He gets restless if he stays inside for too long, poor thing." Outside she heard him raging at her, but she closed the window firmly behind him.

When she turned back around, Hermione was standing with her back to Asher, looking at the covered mirror. "I never looked into it," she said quietly. "Harry and Ron did, in our first year."

"You don't want to," Asher said hurriedly, striding over and placing herself where she could stop Hermione if she tried. She recalled her own reflection with a pang. "When it shows you what you want most, it doesn't take into account things like reality."

"But just to see it," Hermione said, "just for a moment, would be nice." She reached a hand out to the sheet.

Asher grabbed her wrist in concern, stepping in front of her. "That's what they all say at first," she said gently. "And the next thing they know, all their spare time is spent in front of this mirror, wanting what is unattainable, hoping that one day it will step from the other side of the glass into their world." She shook her head. "It's better not to look."

"You did," Hermione murmured, her eyes straying to the Mirror, "and you looked away."

"I did," Asher said, her voice lowering to match Hermione's. "And do you know what I saw? A me that was completely human, unburdened by my heritage." She lowered her eyes to the floor between them, not willing to share the rest. "That's not possible. I knew it could never be real, and that's how I stopped."

Her revelation seemed to have shaken Hermione, and she felt a hand in hers, and then a squeeze. "That must have been hard to see," the other woman said softly.

Asher's heart sped up at the contact. She had never realized before how tiny Hermione's hands were compared to her own; the Transfiguration professor had always been a force to be reckoned with, and it seemed wrong how small her fingers were in contrast with Asher's. Looking at her hand now, nestled in Asher's own thick fingers, she discovered that it appeared almost dainty. Her eyes traveled up Hermione's arm, marveling at the pale skin stretched taut over a delicate bone structure. Her neck was thin but muscular, her shoulders narrow yet suited to her build. And her face, features perfectly proportioned, the thin lips set under a pert nose... Asher realized that she was staring, and she had done it too purposely and for too long to pass it off as something else. When she met Hermione's eyes, there was a strange look in them she couldn't identify.

Hermione pulled her hand from Asher's, then said briskly, "Anyway, I just came up here to check on you. You were rather drunk and I know I upset you. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Asher nearly smacked herself, disgusted at how quickly she had let down her guard. _A compliment, a moment where you feel like the white knight, and some hand-holding is all it takes for you to roll over and beg for treats. Pathetic._ "Thanks, but I'm fine," was all she said.

Hermione looked at her skeptically for a moment. "I assume those were tears of happiness, then?" she asked pointedly.

To that Asher had no response, but Hermione didn't press the point and backed down the ladder without another word, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Well, for a moment, anyway; as soon as the ladder slid back into place, indicating that the trapdoor in the dungeon ceiling had closed and Hermione had gone, a beak tapped on the windowpane. Asher rolled her eyes and went to open the window, readying herself for the scolding she was going to get.

"Dumping me out a window! That's a new low," Amon said furiously as he darted back into the warm tower. "It's freezing out there and the wind has picked up. I fell fifteen feet before I got my wings under me! Were you trying to kill me?"

"No," Asher said listlessly, knowing the bird wouldn't be calmed until he ran out of steam. In the next few minutes, she caught phrases like "reckless endangerment" and "animal cruelty," but on the whole, she wasn't listening; the magpie brought out the same speech every time he felt he had been wronged, with minor tweaks for the current situation.

When he could think of no more handy accusations to throw at Asher, he came to a rest on her desk, where she had sat for the tirade. "Now that you've been properly informed of your wrongdoings, I must bring up the most curious interaction between you and Ms. Granger."

He had been spying. Of course. "Oh, do go on," Asher said sarcastically, "I have been waiting with bated breath."

Amon gave her a quelling glance, then continued haughtily, "Well, if you are certain you do not want to hear of my unbiased and objective observations, then I shall bid you good night." And he turned his tail and flew up into the rafters-- well away from the Venomous Tentacula, Asher noted.

She couldn't stop herself from yawning again, and realizing how late it was, padded in bare feet to her bedroom. She didn't bother to light any candles, simply slipping off her robes and other clothes, tossing them in a corner, and sliding under the covers. She was ignoring the magpie out of stubbornness, but she did want to know what he thought of what had occurred. Perhaps he could interpret the odd expression on Hermione's face. She closed her eyes, her mind casting back to Hermione's opening comment. But she was too sleepy to make sense of it, and she fell asleep moments later with the memory of the other woman's hand in hers coloring her dreams.

 


	12. Reveals Itself

Hermione stepped off the ladder to Asher's quarters and watched it pull itself back into the ceiling. A stone slab slid into place after it with a solid _chunk_. She gazed at it for a moment, wondering if she shouldn't go back and apologize for the way she'd excused herself. _She's probably changed the password by now,_ Hermione thought, reluctantly turning and exiting the dungeon classroom.

She wandered back to her room at a meandering pace, not paying much attention to which way she went. Her mind revisited what Asher had been saying when she had entered the tower; Hermione had emerged from the ladder in time to see Asher pulling the shroud back over the magical mirror. "You knew what it would show me. Are you trying to torture me?" she had said. She had been talking to the magpie not only as if he'd been able to understand her, but also as if he had been the one to pull off the sheet. Hermione wondered if the bird wasn't as unremarkable as Asher claimed, but she had only heard cawing issue from its beak, even if it _was_ timed suspiciously like a conversation.

Had Asher been lying about animals not liking her? Crookshanks' reaction to her made sense now, considering that she was, technically, a predator. Was she some kind of bird whisperer? The moment she'd thought it, Hermione dismissed it as ridiculous, remembering how the Potions professor had used prefects instead of owls to deliver her notes. No, Asher had had no reason to lie about being disliked by the furred and feathered.

In fact, Hermione had been expecting more lies from the guarded woman, but she had been remarkably open considering how a few hours before she had run from Hermione as if she were trying to hex her. She had even told Hermione what she saw in the Mirror of Erised, though she suspected Asher had omitted something from the way she had avoided Hermione's gaze.

Hermione sighed as she remembered what Asher said she had seen: A young woman untroubled by the worries her parentage brought her. She felt a jolt as she realized the wording; Asher had said that in the Mirror, she had been completely human, implying that she wasn't. Of course, it made sense-- from what Hermione understood, as long as succubi fed regularly, they were practically immortal. Still, she had never thought of Asher as only half human, since she didn't look it.

Her hand had certainly felt normal. Hermione felt her cheeks heat up as she remembered the slow, lingering way Asher had moved her eyes, seeming entranced, from her own hand, up Hermione's arm, and to her face. Hermione's heart had beat quicker with each second, and she had frozen, scared to breathe in case Asher stopped. As she had watched the other woman take the potion a few minutes before, she knew it hadn't had anything to do with Asher's half-human status.

No, that reaction had been all Hermione. "She's obviously interested in men," Asher had said to the bird, before she knew Hermione was there. But.. was she? She thought back to dating Ron. Holding his hand had never felt as thrilling as what she had just experienced. Hell, kissing him hadn't been so titillating. Sure, she had always felt safe with him, and being with him was comforting, but he had been her best friend for years. That was expected. She had broken up with him citing his stubbornness, obliviousness, and the fact that the spark between them had faded. Now she wondered if there had ever been one.

Her "thing" with Viktor Krum had been a teenage infatuation. They had talked about everything, finding that they both loved to read and learn, but it had never really been anything but that. Hermione had a friend in him-- they still wrote to each other, occasionally-- but she had turned down his offer of more.

Hermione examined these instances with a sort of embarrassed interest. Her whole life had been the pursuit of knowledge and perfection with little thought to romantic entanglements, but how could she have missed something like this? She prided herself on her powers of observation, but she had apparently completely overlooked her sexuality. People thought her a prude, and she was annoyed to find that she was; she had never once before this considered having a relationship with a woman, because it wasn't expected of her.

For the hundredth time, she relived those small moments where Asher had made her breath catch. They were even more unsettling and exciting now than they had been when they had occurred, looking at them through this new view of herself. The conclusion was obvious after reexamining the evidence: She was attracted to the Potions professor. She slowly came to a halt, simultaneously certain of her feelings and uncertain of what to do with them.

It was then that she realized where her feet had taken her: She was standing once again in front of Asher's classroom. _If that isn't a bloody sign,_ Hermione thought. Her insides squirming, she pushed open the door and positioned herself underneath the trapdoor. "Blue," she murmured hesitantly. Asher had not changed the password; the trapdoor slid back and the ladder descended. Hermione stared up into the stone passageway for a long moment, then gathered what guts she had and began to climb.

She stepped off the top of the ladder, the room around her dimly lit and silent except for the crackling of the embered logs in the fireplace to her left. She lit her wand for light, the small glow only letting her see faint outlines of the furniture and circular walls. In front of her was the window Asher had opened to let the bird out. Just beyond it was a cherrywood desk that held a few books, a small pewter cauldron holding several quills and a few pencils, and some half-rolled pieces of parchment. In the center of the room was the puffy two-person couch and a low, rounded coffee table. She looked across it to where she knew the doorway to Asher's room was: it was completely dark.

Suddenly, she heard movement, and in seconds the huge magpie was flapping its wings in her face. She held up an arm to shield herself. Feeling foolish for doing so, she whispered to it hurriedly, "I'm not trying to pull any funny business, would you stop? You'll gouge my eye out." To her surprise, the bird did, landing on the windowsill and scrutinizing her with one beady eye. "I was hoping she was still awake, I need to talk to her."

"Oh, now you need to speak to her. You excused yourself rather rudely, you know."

Hermione stared at the magpie with wide eyes. There was no mistaking it-- he had been the one to speak. "You.. you can--"

"Yes, I can talk," the bird cut in, sounding annoyed. "I just don't let most people understand me. Too many of them feel the need to poke and prod." The bird shook out his feathers. "I have better ways to spend my time."

"So the two of you _were_ having a conversation," she murmured to herself.

"On which you were eavesdropping," the bird pointed out. "You're lucky I didn't tell her you were there. Fortunately for you, I thought you needed to hear what she was saying." He tilted his head at her, and she got the impression he was looking at her with disapproval. "If you hadn't spoken when you did, I might have gotten her to say a bit more."

"Sorry," Hermione said, feeling like she was in a bizarre dream. _I'm apologizing to a talking bird, really._ "Your name is.."

"Amon," the bird said shortly. "So, have you or have you not finally come to terms with your feelings for Ash?" the bird asked, sounding almost bored. "Because if you haven't, you really shouldn't be here."

Hermione could only look at him, surprised into speechlessness.

"I was watching the two of you from outside the window," he explained, "after my dear friend so rudely ejected me from the premises. You weren't exactly subtle."

"But-- but--" Hermione spluttered, finding words again-- "but if I wasn't subtle, then why did she let me leave?"

She could have sworn Amon rolled his eyes, but she couldn't be sure in the darkness. "Because you scare her," he said, as if this should be obvious. "More specifically, the idea of trying to have a relationship with you scares her. It's like walking along the path to the unknown, which is fraught with the possibility of rejection and embarrassment. She hasn't exactly had good experiences with relationships. She's told you about Esmera, I expect?"

He was awfully eloquent, for a bird, Hermione thought. "Esmera?"

"The barmaid," the bird said impatiently.

"Oh," Hermione said, understanding. "Yes."

"Then you see what she has to go on. She's utterly paralyzed by her fear; she won't let herself hope."

"Oh," Hermione said again. Hesitating a moment, she said, "Perhaps I should just go, then.."

The bird flapped his wings, lifting a few centimeters off the desk. "No, no!" he exclaimed irascibly. "If you don't make the first move, then she won't either. I know her."

Hermione looked at the magpie with narrowed eyes. "You seem very sure of yourself," she said, a bit irritated at the way the bird was speaking to her, as if she were a child.

"I am," Amon said simply, preening his feathers. "Despite her habit of closing herself off, she can't quite do that with you. She trusts you instinctively, and she wants to become close to you. She only stops when she catches herself doing it. But unless you tell her how you feel, she will continue to stop herself, even if you are giving off obvious signs in your behavior, like earlier this evening." The bird stopped his preening and stared at her with one unwavering eye. "She needs irrefutable evidence."

Hermione half-smiled: That sounded very much like herself, the need for proof. "So," she said uncertainly, "how do I go about this?"

"That is up to you," he replied. "I believe I've done enough for one evening. Good luck," he added, taking off and flying up into the rafters.

Hermione stared after him, thinking. If she slept on the couch, waiting for morning to come, it was very likely that the other woman would be instantly put on the defensive upon discovering her there. She would have to confront her directly. Her eyes traveled once more to the darkened doorway. She was reluctant to wake Asher up, but she was already having second thoughts despite Amon's rather condescending "pep talk." If she was going to do this, it needed to be now.

Taking a deep breath, her stomach contracting nauseatingly, she walked slowly across the stone floor, using her lit wand to navigate the unfamiliar room. As she reached the doorway to Asher's bedroom, she shielded the glow with her other hand, not wanting to wake the other woman just yet.

She paused on the threshold, taking in the arrangement of the small, sparely furnished space. To the left of the doorway was a wardrobe and a short dresser with an attached mirror. A folding screen stood nearby, obscuring a small area where she supposed Asher dressed. Looking to her right, she saw a queen-sized mattress set on a basic frame. A lump of covers was on the left side, long black hair trailing over the pillow. Memorizing where she needed to go, Hermione extinguished her wand, the room falling into complete darkness. Carefully, she shuffled over to the bed and felt for the mattress before sitting gingerly on the edge.

Her eyes drawn to the spot where she knew Asher lay sleeping, she sat quietly for several minutes, unsure of what to do next. If she touched her, she might startle, and who knew what she might do. But then, she was likely to give a start anyway-- being woken in the middle of the night by a woman you didn't expect to be in your bed wasn't exactly an everyday occurrence. Maybe it wasn't wise to do this; Hermione's middle was certainly having second thoughts. _I am in bed with a woman,_ Hermione thought nervously, her stomach increasing its wriggling. _Sort of._

Her mouth dry, she said hoarsely, "Asher." She heard no movement, so she cleared her throat and tried again. "Asher." There was the sound of sheets brushing against one another, and then fingers fumbling on wood and the clatter of something hitting the floor. More movement followed, and suddenly a small ball of light blinded Hermione. She blinked painfully, squinting.

Through the tears her eyes had produced at the abrupt illumination, she saw Asher looking at her with bewilderment. "Hermione?" she croaked. When Hermione nodded, Asher scrambled with the covers, gathering them to her chest. "Hermione, I'm not wearing anything!" she hissed, embarrassed. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione, a bit dazed by this revelation, didn't answer right away. What was she doing here? Oh, yes, she came to have a conversation. "Er," she said finally. "I wanted to talk to you."

Asher stared at her with baffled amazement. "In the middle of the night? Couldn't it wait till morning?"

"No," Hermione said, sure of this much.

When she didn't say anything else, Asher let out an exasperated breath and waved her glowing wand. Several candles burst into light, letting them see each other more clearly. Hermione's hair was escaping from its ponytail, wisps of wavy brown locks falling around her face. She looked very tired. "Hermione, I don't mean to sound rude, but you look.. a little rough," Asher said. "What have you been doing?"

"Thinking," Hermione said, relieved that she knew the answer to this question, too.

"Oka-a-ay," Asher said slowly, lifting an eyebrow at her and carefully raising herself onto an elbow. "About what?"

Hermione couldn't help it; when Asher moved, her eyes were drawn downward. The blankets covered Asher's chest and below, but her pale shoulders gleamed in the dim light, milky and blemish-free. Her muscles stood out in relief with the effort it took to support herself, the candles creating shadows that flickered in the hollows of her neck. Reddening when she realized she hadn't yet answered the query, Hermione raised her eyes to Asher's. "You," she said shyly.

She saw suspicion pass through Asher's eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

Hermione pulled her legs onto the bed so that she was facing Asher, stalling. What was she supposed to say? This was uncharted territory for her, and she wasn't sure she could bring herself to say what she was thinking. Even in her head, she was dancing around naming what she was feeling directly; how could she do it out loud to the subject of her thoughts?

"Hermione, you show up in my bedroom in the middle of the night, saying that you need to talk to me and it can't wait, but you're not _saying_ anything," Asher said with exasperation. "I'm not a mind reader." Sitting up completely, arranging the covers so that they wouldn't reveal anything, she sighed. "Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly," Hermione hedged, willing herself not to look away from Asher's face. "I-- I just realized something, is all."

"And what is that?" Asher asked with exaggerated patience, leaning back against the headboard and resting her head against it.

In the candlelight, Hermione could see that the other woman's mind was turning over from the look in her eye, though her facial expression seemed a little too blank and pleasant. What was she thinking, that she was trying so carefully not to reveal? "She won't let herself hope," Amon had said. Was that what was going through her mind?

Indeed, it was. Asher sat across from Hermione with a war in her head. _She is_ in _your_ bed _,_ one part of her brain was saying, _and she's suddenly gone speechless after saying she was thinking about you and realized something. She's trying to say she likes you._

The other part replied, _She probably had some kind of hare-brained idea on how to "help" you. She's only hesitating because she remembers how you reacted the last time she tried._

_Why would she come here in the middle of the night for that?_ the first part protested.

_You know how she gets when she has a new idea,_ the second replied reasonably.

_Yes, she goes to the library,_ the first fired back. _She's in your damned_ room _. There are no bookshelves here._

_You're reading too much into this,_ the second said.

"Asher?" Hermione questioned, noticing that the other woman's eyes had gone distant.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Asher asked distractedly.

"I'm trying to tell you something," Hermione replied, her stomach jumping. When Asher said nothing, she continued, "I was thinking about.. Well, I realized.. Oh, _damn._ " She looked away; she couldn't get the words out. It was too embarrassing to say, "I was thinking about how you feel about me, and I realized that I was never attracted to Ron or Viktor, and that I am attracted to you." It sounded so simple, and what she was feeling wasn't. She recognized now that she had never had any real romantic feelings towards anyone before, and that made her feel naïve. The fact that she hadn't even realized it until now made her feel stupid, something she was not used to experiencing. That it was a woman she wanted was unexpected, and threw her off-kilter; Hermione didn't think it was bad, but it was an unexplored direction, and she liked to be prepared. She felt like a hormonal teenager when a thrill went through her at the thought that there was nothing between her and Asher's bare skin but some sheets and a thin duvet.

When she looked back at Asher, the other woman was looking at her with an expression that was torn between hopeful and hardened; she was steeling herself for rejection, Hermione realized. Unable to speak, she scooted closer on the mattress, watching carefully for a sign that she should stop. Haltingly, she raised her hand, then reached across the shortened space to cup Asher's cheek. Asher seemed frozen, her eyes now wide at the touch. Her skin was quite as soft as it looked, Hermione observed. When the other woman didn't bat her hand away, she was emboldened. She traced Asher's cheekbone with a gentle caress of her thumb, realizing that she was trembling.

Asher sat paralyzed, finding it difficult to believe what was happening. _She's stroking my cheek._ She would wake up any moment, surely. But Hermione's fingers were now moving down to trace her jaw from her hairline down to the curve of her chin. _Told you,_ said the first part of her brain smugly. When the brunette's fingers hesitated, then moved up to touch her bottom lip, she let out a shaking breath.

Hermione eased closer still, her heart beating at her chest. _Irrefutable evidence,_ she thought, her brain feeling fuzzy. _That's what Amon said she needed._ Her breath came shallowly as her face neared Asher's, her entire body buzzing as she stared at the lips she was tracing. Stopping a few centimeters from them, she slowly lifted her eyes to the other woman's gaze.

Asher was watching her raptly, her eyes filled with an intense longing; Hermione was so close that she hardly dared to breathe. _This happened before,_ she thought. _Things got out of control._ But Hermione seemed to sense that she was about to pull away, and closed the distance between them. Asher let out a small sound when their lips met. A moment passed, and then she tentatively pressed back.

Hermione couldn't move for a second, shocked into stillness by the lightning that seemed to have struck her. Then, suddenly, she couldn't stand to have the rest of her so far away from the rest of Asher, and pulled the other woman closer with a hand around her waist. The feeling of Asher's bare back against her hand and the thought that she was naked except for a few flimsy blankets only increased this need. They kissed hungrily, Hermione feeling a hand sliding up her neck and into her hair and another encircling her waist.

They broke from the kiss a minute later, both breathing heavily. Hermione rested her forehead against Asher's shoulder, feeling as if she was about to explode or melt, she wasn't sure which. It had never been like this with Ron; how could she have been so oblivious?

"Um," Asher said breathily, her face hidden in Hermione's neck, feeling as limp as a cooked noodle. Hermione Granger was not only in her bed, but she had just kissed her. She couldn't shake the feeling that her alarm would go off any moment and bring her back to reality. She took in a slow breath, and Hermione's scent wafted to her nose: vanilla, old books, and something else. She had never smelled anything in a dream before: This was real. She started to grin. She pulled back, and her eyes traveled down. The sheet had fallen somewhat, and she hurried to gather it up again, her face burning.

Hermione watched Asher scramble to cover herself, looking away to give her privacy as she felt her own cheeks grow warm. "Was.. was that okay?" she asked carefully, avoiding Asher's eyes.

There was a brief silence, and then the other woman burst out laughing; Hermione looked over to see that she was now laying down, securely back under the sheets, her face buried in the pillow and her long black hair obscuring her face as she guffawed. "Was-- that _okay?_ " she gasped, her jerking breaths sounding almost painful. "Oh-- oh-- that's funny!"

Hermione frowned. "What's funny?" she demanded. She had been quite serious.

Asher peeked up at her from behind a veil of hair. Realizing that Hermione thought she was laughing at her, she sobered slightly. "Hermione," she said, unable to completely keep the amusement out of her tone, "you just kissed me so thoroughly that I feel like a bowl of spaghetti. Of course that's okay." She watched Hermione's face get so red it was almost purple and stifled a chuckle, reaching up to cradle the other woman's cheek reassuringly. "That's actually a very good sign." She felt a swell of excitement rise in her chest as it hit her again that this was actually happening. There was a part of her that was telling her it wouldn't last, but she squashed it down, determined to enjoy the moment.

"Oh," Hermione said, relieved. The tension left her in such a rush, she nearly sagged, realizing how tired she was.

Asher noticed this and patted the bed beside her. "It's late, you can stay here." At the hesitant look on Hermione's face, she said, "I'll behave, don't worry. Besides, it would be mean to ask you to climb down four and a half stories when you look like you can hardly stand."

"I don't know.." Hermione murmured.

"I'll take the couch, then," Asher insisted, picking up her wand to summon her robe. "It's the middle of the night."

"No, I couldn't ask you to do that," Hermione said hurriedly. "It's your bed."

"Well, I'm not making you sleep on the couch. My parents taught me to be a better hostess than that," Asher said firmly, her robe zooming through the doorway and into her hand.

As she started to pull it around her shoulders, Hermione reached out a hand to stop her. "Okay."

Asher stopped fiddling with the robe, looking back to her. "Okay what?"

"Okay, I'll stay," Hermione whispered, looking at her hands, which were picking at each other.

"If you're not comfortable--" Asher started, but was interrupted.

"I want to," Hermione said quietly. "I just.. I've never done this before." Asher waited patiently. "Slept in the same bed with a girl, I mean."

Ah. "It's easy. It's just like sleeping in a bed by yourself, only with more opportunities for cuddling," Asher said lightly. She dropped the robe on the floor beside the bed and snuggled back under the covers and onto her back, extending an arm across the bed invitingly and smiling gently at Hermione.

"Er, well then," Hermione said, standing. "I'm just going to take these off. More comfortable," she added awkwardly, gesturing at her robes and blushing. Asher turned her face away obligingly. Hermione quickly pulled her robes over her head, now clad only in a tank top and shorts. She sat on the bed, hesitating for a short moment before slipping under the blankets and covering herself with them. She gazed at Asher's outstretched arm with trepidation. She knew the other woman was hoping she would lay next to her: Why else the comment about cuddling? _She doesn't bite,_ she scolded herself. _You already kissed her, what harm could this do?_ But Asher wasn't wearing anything else, and if Hermione snuggled up to her, there would be hardly anything between them. The thought excited and scared her.

After another moment's indecision, she closed the distance between them, laying her head on the pillow next to Asher's and scooting so that she lay flush against Asher's side, the other woman's arm shifting so that it was underneath the pillow. She gave an involuntary sigh; she hadn't realized how cold she was until she felt the warmth of the Potions professor beside her. Something tickled her face, and she wrinkled her nose.

"Sorry," Asher said, lifting her head and arranged her long hair so that it was on the other side of her head. Her head back on the pillow, she looked at Hermione and smiled, reaching out and tucking a lock of brown hair behind the other woman's ear and out of her face. Hermione smiled back, and her eyelids drooped. Asher felt her own falling, and then a small, cold arm snaked across her midsection. She covered it with her own, drifting off into sleep with a faint smile on her lips.

Hermione watched her for a few moments from under heavy lids, thinking that she had never seen Asher look so content; it looked good on her, a welcome change from her usual somber expression. Hermione's eyes finally refused to stay open any longer, and her last thought was that she would try to make Asher look that way more often.. starting tomorrow.


	13. The Morning After

When Asher woke, it was rather suddenly. She had just been having a dream where a pirate ship had sailed through the air towards her tower and then bashed the stone with its prow. She blinked, her vision blurry with sleep. Attempting to stretch, she was brought up short by the solid weight of another person against her, hindering her movement. She looked down, and her heart lifted. Hermione. Her face broke into a wide smile as she remembered the night before. Hermione was still quite asleep, curled tightly around Asher with her mouth slightly open. Asher thought it was the cutest thing she had ever seen.

She bent down to kiss the other woman's forehead, but was interrupted by a distant BOOM! that seemed to be coming from her living room floor. I really need to get a doorbell, she thought, carefully disentangling herself from the sleeping brunette. She slipped from the bed, casting a glance behind her; Hermione was awake, despite her best efforts not to disturb her, and she hurried to put on her robe before the other woman saw Asher standing there wearing only a pair of panties.

"Wha--" Hermione mumbled, eyes mostly closed.

"Shh, someone's at the door. I'll be right back," Asher said, grabbing her wand and tying the robe closed. She strode quickly into the living room, seeing that Winky hadn't even stoked the fire yet; it must be before eight-thirty. She flicked her wand at the trapdoor, holding the ladder back, then said, "Who is it?"

"Minerva," called a brisk voice.

"Alright, come on up," Asher said, waving her wand so that the ladder would descend. She hadn't really needed to check; only two people knew exactly where the entrance to her rooms was, and one of them was in her bed. She smiled at that thought.

The headmistress's head poked up through the hole in the floor. "I know it appeals to your sense of adventure to live in a tower, Asher," she panted as she stepped off the ladder, "but couldn't you have picked a place for your quarters that was just a hair more accessible?"

Asher grinned at her. "But this was too much fun; I couldn't resist." Then her expression turned serious. Minerva wouldn't have shown up this early if everything was fine. "You know if you wanted to meet with me, I would have gladly come to you. Is something going on?"

McGonagall frowned. "Well, I went to speak with Professor Granger this morning in the staffroom, as we had planned, but she didn't show. I asked around, but no one has seen her since last night, and when I went to her rooms to look in on her, she wasn't there. Normally I wouldn't worry too much, but it is so unlike her to be late for a meeting, or to disappear like this.."

Asher fought the blush that was threatening to rise to her cheeks. The prospect of telling the headmistress where Hermione was did not make her comfortable; Minerva was like a close aunt, and while she knew of Asher's interest in Hermione and women in general, it wasn't something they spoke about much, aside from when she had gone to her attempting to resign after the incident with Hermione last term. She had a terrible thought.. "And so you came here, to make sure I had taken my potion and hadn't done anything to her," she concluded flatly.

Minerva looked at her with an apologetic expression. "It is so unlike her to be late," she said again. "I only wanted to check."

Asher didn't know what she would have said or done next, and thankfully she was interrupted. "I'm right here, and I'm fine," came Hermione's voice, though it did sound a bit nervous, and thick with sleep. Asher turned and saw her standing in the doorway to the bedroom; it was obvious from her appearance that she had just woken up. "I forgot about our meeting, I'm sorry."

McGonagall was looking between the two of them and blinking rather rapidly. "Yes, well," she said finally, clearing her throat, "that's quite alright, Professor. We will reschedule." She cast another apologetic look in Asher's direction, then put a foot on the top rung of the ladder. "I will see you both later."

Asher waited until the rhythmic _clunk-clunk-clunk_ of the headmistress descending the steps ceased, then waved the ladder back into its retracted position. She walked over to the couch and sat heavily, feeling rather dejected. Minerva had trusted her enough to let her teach and to refuse her resignation, but clearly not enough where Hermione was concerned. A familiar hurt began to settle in the pit of her stomach.

The couch shifted; Hermione had sat next to her. She felt a hesitant hand rubbing circles on her back. "It almost happened once," she said softly, "and it really isn't like me to be late. She was doing her duty as headmistress."

"I know," Asher said dully, relaxing into the gentle massage despite her mood. "It just hurts that she would think that of me."

Hermione sat back on the couch, then gently pulled Asher backwards so that she was next to her, an arm around her shoulders. Asher leaned her head on Hermione's shoulder, sighing, but it was hard to stay upset when she was snuggling up to the woman she'd been thinking of almost nonstop for months.

"Ah, the happy couple, just as I prophesied!" came a voice from above, and seconds later, the giant magpie landed on the coffee table, regarding them both with one rather smug eye.

"Shut up," they said in unison.

Asher turned first to look at Hermione in amazement. "You heard him?" Then she looked at Amon. "And you let her?"

"She came up here last night looking to speak with you. I had to make sure she wasn't going to do anything stupid, like leave," the magpie said.

Asher tried to complain about the bird's interference, but couldn't; she was happy with the outcome, and protesting his involvement would be implying that she wasn't. She settled for muttering, "Damn meddling bird." Scowling at him, she continued darkly, "I think that's how I'll refer to you from now on. People should be warned."

"Oh, quit yer bitchin', you don't mean it!" the bird said cheerily. He flew over to the window and nudged at the catch, opening it himself. Just before he took off, he called back at her, "I almost forgot.. Told you so!" Then there was the flutter of wings, and he was gone.

Hermione, looking amused at Asher's exasperated expression, nudged her with a leg. "What did he tell you?"

"That I was 'closing myself to other possibilities in front of me out of habit, instead of reason'," Asher quoted. She glanced at Hermione, and seeing that she was suppressing her own 'told you', said, "Oh, not you too."

"Unlike your feathered friend," she replied, grinning, "I have the sense to keep my mouth shut."

Asher couldn't help but grin back. "You noticed that, did you?" She stretched, her arms extended over the back of the couch and her legs bumping the coffee table. Giving a satisfied moan, she curled back up, nestling her head into Hermione's shoulder once more. _This is so comfortable it should be illegal,_ she thought contentedly. "Unfortunately, efforts to make him shut up result only in a sharp telling-off and more opinions."

Hermione gave a chuckle that shook Asher's head on her shoulder. "I'll have to remember that."

"House-elf arrival in one minute," Asher said in a perfect imitation of the automated voice systems that Muggles used.

Hermione shot her a bemused look. "I know your dad was a wizard," she said, "so where on earth did you hear enough of those voices to be able to parrot them so accurately?"

"The little town we lived near was entirely Muggle," Asher explained. "We had to go into town to get groceries and such, but Dad requested such odd things that he had to call the stores ahead of time. The only way to do that was by phone." She grinned. "He was never completely comfortable with the thing in the first place, but then the hardware store switched to an automated system. It was the only branch for a hundred miles and had expanded to include several departments, so they needed it. Dad let me handle the orders after that, complaining that he didn't have time to listen to all the listings. He thought the phone should be able to tell what department he wanted."

Hermione giggled. "Typical wizard."

"Yeah," Asher said, feeling a bit somber now; remembering her father usually had that effect. "It was alright, though. I learned a lot about Muggle society that way."

Hermione was about to comment, but was distracted by the thunk! of logs hitting the fire. When she looked for the culprit, she didn't see anyone; the wood seemed to be jumping sideways into the fireplace of its own accord. A minute later, she saw a flash of movement through a small opening next to it.

"That's just Winky, stoking the fire and starting breakfast," Asher said, following her eyes. "She has her own little room back there, and a small kitchen." She smiled eagerly. "That means she'll have coffee soon. Do you want tea instead?"

"Yes, please," Hermione said, still not entirely comfortable that Asher employed a house-elf without pay. "You Americans and your coffee," she teased.

"Dad actually started me on it, believe it or not, and he was raised in Britain," Asher said defensively. She called out to Winky, "Add another plate and a pot of tea, please!"

"Why did he move to the States?" Hermione asked curiously, intending to take full advantage of Asher's new openness.

"He had regular disagreements with my Uncle Cornelius," Asher said, "at least, from what I understand. He didn't like that my uncle was moving up in the Ministry, or the way he was doing it. Uncle Corn told him he should stop focusing on something as silly as Potions, and do something useful, like work for the Ministry." Asher frowned. "The way my aunt tells it, they had an enormous falling-out over Easter brunch one year, and Dad packed up and left; he saw the US as a more open version of Britain. But my uncle kept hounding him, so Dad practically went into seclusion, building a house in the mountains away from any wizarding communities so he could work in peace. Not that Dad ever directly mentioned any of this." she added. "I had to put it together from stray comments and rare conversations with my uncle I overheard, and they hardly spoke to one another at all after I was born." She sighed, because she knew why now, though she hadn't at the time.

"Typical Brit," Hermione said, without the giggle this time.

"Yes, very much so. He didn't like to reveal anything that might make me see him as weak." She feigned a British accent. "Stiff upper lip, and that sort of thing."

Hermione grinned. "That accent was terrible, considering you live in a castle full of people who speak the Queen's English."

Asher didn't dignify this with a reply, her eyes on the tray of breakfast and coffee that Winky was carrying out to them. "Ah, thank you," she said after taking an appreciative sip. "Perfect as always, Winky."

The house-elf gave a pleased curtsy. Then she turned to Hermione. "Winky is sorry, Professor Granger, but I is not knowing the way you likes your tea. I is putting milk and sugar next to it." And she hurried back to the small doorway, reemerging moments later with another tray, which she placed on the coffee table in front of Hermione.

"That's alright, Winky. This looks just fine, thank you," Hermione said kindly, doctoring her tea with two sugars. She noted that the house-elf was watching her, so she took a sip and smiled at her. This seemed to be the signal that Winky was waiting for, and the elf bustled off into Asher's bedroom, presumably to gather laundry and make her bed.

Asher tucked in to her breakfast with enthusiasm. Hermione noted that the plate was overflowing with four eggs, five strips of bacon, three slices of toast, and two large pancakes. Her own had two eggs, three sausage links, and two pieces of toast. She eyed Asher's figure, wondering how she kept it if that was how much she ate every morning.

Asher caught her looking and smiled. "High metabolism," she explained. "If I don't eat all this, my energy levels will be even lower than usual."

"Where do you put it?" Hermione asked enviously. "That looks like it would fill three stomachs!"

Asher grinned and continued eating. They chatted more over breakfast, most of it inconsequential and mildly teasing. She had never felt this kind of easy rapport with someone before, guarded as she usually was, and she found that she liked it, though she couldn't help wondering in the back of her mind just how long it would last. In her experience, it inevitably came to a crashing halt, usually around the time she revealed one of her secrets. But, she reminded herself, Hermione already knew quite a few of those, and she was still here. Still, she couldn't stop the slight uneasiness that had wormed its way into her stomach; she just tried her best to ignore it.

Hermione looked at the clock and gasped. "I have to go! My first class starts in forty-five minutes!"

Asher watched with amusement as the brunette hurried into the bedroom, presumably to get her robes, and was grinning by the time she came back out empty-handed. "Winky took them to wash, I expect," she said with barely suppressed laughter.

"Asher, I can't walk back to my rooms like this!" She gestured down at the rumpled tank-top and delightfully scant pair of shorts she was wearing, then up at her disheveled hair that was just barely still in its ponytail. "The students will notice and start talking!"

"Oh, it's just a quick dash," Asher chuckled, unable to keep the laughter in any longer. "Besides, most of them are probably still in bed."

"What? It's quarter after nine, they're likely all at breakfast before classes."

"Hermione, it's Saturday," Asher said between chortles at the panic on the other woman's face. "No classes today."

"I- Oh," Hermione said, suddenly feeling very foolish for forgetting the day. "Well," she said, her tone turning playful, "I had a distracting evening." A very distracting evening. It came to her again exactly what she'd done, and she was a bit amazed at herself for being able to treat it so casually.

Asher smiled back, though not widely. The last part of the night had been wonderful, but the earlier bit wasn't something she was too keen to remember. "If Winky doesn't have the laundry done by the time you go, you can borrow some of my robes. They'll be a little long, but they'll cover you." She was only a few inches taller than Hermione, so it wouldn't be too inconvenient. She asked, her tone light to disguise how eager she was to know, "So, besides your missed meeting with Minerva, do you have anything else planned for today?"

Hermione settled back on the couch, noticing that her previously empty mug was now full of tea again, and, she suspected, flavored with two sugars. After lifting it to her lips, confirming her guess, she said, "Not anything terribly urgent. I have a giant stack of essays I need to grade by Monday, but that's really it." A potted, tropical-looking plant sitting next to the couch leaned against Hermione's legs, tickling them, and she batted it away with a squeal. "What is that?"

Asher chuckled. "It won't hurt you. It's a Samoan Snuggler. It likes warmth, that's why it's leaning towards you. The room hasn't heated up enough yet for it to keep its fronds to itself," she added, looking at it disapprovingly.

Hermione could have sworn the plant's white blooms drooped in response, but it didn't bother her again, and Asher got up from the couch and walked over to the hearth. Holding her wand over a large chamberpot, she filled it with water and then pushed it closer to the fire. "For the humidity," she explained. "Most of these plants come from tropical climates, and since I don't like living in a furnace, I compensate with moist air."

Hermione, who had not enjoyed Herbology as much as she had Arithmancy, just nodded as if she understood. She watched as the other woman walk around the wand, watering some of the plants, but not others. Then she opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a toad, squirming in her hand. "He's the last one, he knows what's coming," Asher explained. "I need to go to the apothecary and get more." She held the toad up and whistled. The Venomous Tentacula reached down a vine and snatched it from her hand, then withdrew again. Hermione heard a violent squelch from the rafters and winced. "Oh, don't worry," Asher said reassuringly, "it wasn't a magical toad. The Menagerie does sell regular ones for feeding purposes."

That was a small comfort for Hermione, who couldn't ignore the small crunching noises coming from overhead. "Why do you have that thing, anyway?"

Asher grinned. "Vlad? Well, it was actually an attempt to get back at me. Some idiot I repeatedly turned down for dates got mad and sent him to me. He didn't realize that when you can buy them in pots, they're babies, and easily influenced. I'd have liked to send him back to the jerk, but by the time he was old enough to learn attack commands, he'd already moved out of the pot," she added, gesturing to the earthy portion of the floor between her desk and the bedroom wall.

Hermione lifted her eyebrows. "Does this happen to you a lot?" she asked cautiously.

"The death threats? No, thankfully." Catching the look in Hermione's eye, she said with amusement, "You meant guys asking me out, didn't you?" When Hermione's mouth tightened, she continued teasingly, "It happens fairly often. Jealous?"

"No," Hermione said unconvincingly, busying herself with sipping at her tea.

"You are, too," Asher said, a silly smile plastering itself on her face. The thought made her giddy: Hermione Granger, jealous because of her. She repressed a delighted giggle, quickly arranging her expression into something more dignified. She glanced at her desk, then groaned. "Oh, no."

"What?" Hermione asked curiously, setting down her tea and turning in her seat to look.

"The Wiggling Househunter is gone again," Asher said, sounding annoyed. "I try to keep it on my desk, but I really should fix it in place with a Permanent Sticking Charm or something." At Hermione's blank stare, she went on guiltily, "It must be unhappy with me. It only hops off looking for a new place to put its pot when I've displeased it somehow. Luckily, it probably can't get out of the tower."

"Probably?" Hermione questioned faintly, imagining a pot hopping down the ladder.

Asher came back to the couch and sat next to Hermione again, grabbing a piece of toast. "Yeah," she said, taking a large bite. Through a mouth full of bread, she elaborated, "The only way out besides climbing down is a small trapdoor in the floor, in Winky's quarters. She uses the stairs to access the rest of the castle. But I doubt the Househunter could open it by itself, and Winky keeps it closed unless she's using it." She made a sour face, washing the toast down with some coffee. "I should know better than to try keeping a migratory plant in my tower, but it was a gift. Professor Sprout was impressed with how I raised Vlad, and I suspect she wanted to gauge how good I was with a more difficult customer. The Househunter only migrates when it's dissatisfied."

She said all this rather matter-of-factly, and though Hermione had been living in the wizarding world since she was eleven, it still seemed rather fantastic. "I see," she said vaguely.

Asher put down her coffee and then turned on the couch to face her, pulling up one leg and folding it. Seeing Hermione's expression, she chuckled. "I forgot. You never got as into Herbology as much as I did." She looked down, seeing a bit of earth stuck to her finger, and a grin came over her face. She poked the tip of Hermione's nose. "I know you don't like to get dirty, but I must inform you, you've got something on your nose."

Hermione reached up and wiped at her face, her hand coming away with a small smear of brown. "You-- you git!" she squeaked, rubbing her hand on Asher's robe to remove the earth. "Is it still there?"

"Yep," Asher said, sounding pleased with herself and making no move to remove it. Hermione gave a scowl that was only half mocking, and leaned forward, proceeding to rub her nose vigorously on Asher's sleeve. Asher started giggling, a sound she didn't usually produce, and she stopped immediately, clearing her throat.

Hermione, deeming her nose clean, raised her head from Asher's shoulder, her eyes sparkling despite the frown she was trying to keep on her face. She caught the other woman's gaze, her expression turning serious, then leaned in tentatively and planted a lingering kiss on her lips.

"Mm," Asher said, eyes closed, reaching up to stroke Hermione's cheek. She felt Hermione put a leg on either side of hers, and then a weight settle on her lap and against the top half of her body. "Mmmm," she continued agreeably, smiling into Hermione's lips. She felt a tongue carefully touch her bottom lip, and gave a contented sigh as the kiss deepened, slipping her arms around Hermione's waist. Her tank top had ridden up a bit, and Asher's hands met the soft skin of her lower back.

Hermione pressed into her more firmly, letting out a small, eager sound at the touch. Asher reclined backwards on the couch with her head against the arm, and Hermione followed her down, laying a bracing hand on Asher's chest, just over her heart. She could feel it pounding, vibrating the other woman's sternum with a steady, quick rhythm. Hermione pulled away after a long moment for air, and because her own heart seemed to be beating in places in her body she hadn't known it could go. She slumped rather bonelessly onto the other woman. A bit out of breath, she said, "I just realized I do have plans for today," and snuggled into Asher's neck to demonstrate. After all, the essays would still be there tomorrow.


	14. Horcruxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this again, wondering why I've posted it twice, the answer is that I actually forgot to post a chapter in between this one and the previous. The story actually works fine without it, but I put it back because it's full of cute. And this will be a lesson to me not to edit and (fail to) post before I've had enough coffee.

The next two months were the happiest Asher had known in her adult life. She convinced Professor Sprout to switch her places at the Head Table, and this way she and Hermione were able to have breakfast together every morning without inviting too many questions. The students did notice that the Potions professor was now almost disgustingly cheery in classes, and that Professor Granger had become more tolerant of their misbehavior, taking fewer House points for rule violations than she usually did.

The other professors knew something was going on, as well, though no one but the Headmistress knew precisely what. Asher was actually socializing with them in the staffroom, which was quite unprecedented, for one, and Hermione was often seen with her, the two of them conferring over essays or simply enjoying a cup of tea or coffee in their free time between classes. Neither of them felt the need or desire to fill anyone in, for differing reasons.

Hermione kept it quiet because she was still adjusting to the whole same-sex relationship thing; she wasn't completely comfortable with it yet, and didn't know how she would answer questions about it without a lot of blushing and stammering. When she was kissing Asher it all seemed natural and comfortable, but she found that talking about kissing Asher-- even with Asher herself-- was nearly impossible.

Asher said nothing because she was half waiting for the other shoe to drop. She was so thrilled with their budding relationship that she couldn't help but feel that it was too good to be true. Hermione had hurt her before, however unintentionally, and Asher had rarely had anything this good in her life that hadn't soon been taken from her.

They spent time together almost every evening during the week, and were nearly inseparable over the weekends. Out of professional courtesy, Hermione had informed every professor where she lived, so by unspoken agreement their meeting place was Asher's quarters, because no one but McGonagall knew where they were or how to get in. Hermione started keeping a set of spare robes in Asher's wardrobe, and Winky no longer had to be asked to make a pot of tea and an extra helping of breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays, having realized that the Transfiguration professor was becoming a fixture.

Hermione had taken to reviewing her students' essays while curled on the couch with her head in Asher's lap. Sometimes the way the other woman played with her hair was terribly distracting, but most of the time it took the stress out of grading. On such a day, a sunny Saturday at the beginning of April, she finished reading the last seventh-year essay in the stack and wrote an "A" on it with a flourish of her quill. She tossed it over the back of the couch and then stretched, yawning. Looking up at Asher, who had a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose to make out the impossibly tiny writing on one of her sixth-year students' essays, she tugged at the parchment the Potions professor was holding. "Time for a break, yes?" she asked hopefully. "I've just finished."

Asher dropped the roll of parchment on the coffee table, looking disgusted. "Yes, please. Not only is that ridiculously hard to read, it's half-plagiarized. I need a microscope and a red pen and about three more hours to deal with it properly." She leaned back on the couch, looking down at Hermione; suddenly, her face broke out into a twitching smile. "You either have several drops of bright green ink on your face or the most tame case of dragonpox I've ever seen."

Hermione swiped at her face with a hand and found a few green smears on her fingers. She grimaced and snatched up her wand, waving it in a circle to remove the ink. "That's the last time I grade with the essays held above me," she said firmly. Satisfied that she was stain-free, she put her wand back on the coffee table and rolled onto her side with her head on Asher's leg, facing away from the other woman. She felt a hand idly stroking her hair and smiled, growing sleepy with the soothing motion. She yawned.

"All tuckered out?" Asher asked playfully in a twanging Southern accent.

"Mmhmm," Hermione answered, her eyes closed. She squealed as she felt herself suddenly leave the couch, her eyelids jerking open with surprise. She found that she was several feet higher off the ground than she had been before, and when she came back down, she was tucked against Asher's prone form, on the couch once more. Hermione turned her head around to face the other woman, who had an impish look on her face. "Did-- did you just lift me into the air and hold me there while you laid down?"

Asher grinned. "Yep."

"What spell did you use for that? It was remarkably smooth."

"No spells," the Potions professor said simply.

Hermione could only stare at her.

"I'm stronger than I look."

"No bloody kidding," Hermione agreed fervently, turning her head around again and snuggling backwards. There, on the coffee table next to her own, was Asher's wand. _She really did lift me by herself._ She was once again reminded that Asher, no matter how normal she looked, was not entirely human. It was something Hermione had been aware of in an academic sort of way, but now it felt branded into her understanding of Asher as a person.

It scared her a little to think that Asher had raised another human being several decimeters, in all likelihood with one arm given that she'd had to reposition herself on the couch, and had sounded not even a little out of breath afterwards. Hermione had never felt threatened by Asher before, but now she realized that the other woman could probably kill her with her bare hands without even breaking a sweat. _Not that she would ever do such a thing,_ Hermione scolded herself. _Why would you go thinking something like that? She's never been anything but gentle with you._

But these new, unsettling thoughts continued to swirl uncomfortably in her brain, banishing Hermione's fatigue of a few minutes before. Her mind wandered to the questions she still had about the holes in Asher's story-- mainly, where she had gone after working for the Ministry and before coming to Hogwarts. The Potions professor had shut down and quickly ushered Hermione out of her classroom when had asked before, although that wasn't very surprising; they had hardly known each other then. She had been hesitant to ask again, afraid that Asher would think she was suspicious of her. This relationship they had was comfortable, but tentative; Hermione knew that for each of the things she held back for fear of upsetting the balance, Asher probably had two or three.

Her curiosity gathered in an uncomfortable ball inside her chest. Carefully turning onto her back so that she could see Asher's face, though not looking her in the eye, she reached up a hand to play with a long strand of black hair, preparing herself to ask.

Asher was watching her with knit brows; she had undoubtedly caught on to Hermione's shift in mood. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Has something happened?"

"I wanted to ask you something," Hermione said carefully, "but I'm worried you'll get upset with me for wanting to know."

"Okay," Asher said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Go on."

Hermione didn't say anything for a minute. Then, raising her eyes to Asher's, she asked softly, "What did you do after you stopped working with the Ministry? You know, after researching the Stiffness Solution." She watched as Asher's eyes closed tightly for a brief moment, another slow breath making her chest rise and fall; she could tell that this was a question that the other woman did not want to answer.

"If I tell you, you'll--" Asher started, then faltered.

"I'll what?"

"You'll think badly of me," she answered quietly.

"It would have to be pretty terrible for that," Hermione replied, her voice as gentle as she could make it. "Think of what we've gone through with each other already. I'm here, aren't I?"

"You won't understand," Asher said, a note of panic now in her voice. Her eyes met Hermione's for a brief moment; they looked almost haunted. "I'm not proud of it. It was foolish, and I've given up trying."

"Trying what?" Hermione persisted. "Everyone does foolish things. It can't be that bad."

"You won't understand," Asher said again, though feebly this time. She looked down, her hair falling to hide her face.

"So help me to." When Hermione tucked Asher's black hair behind her ear, she saw that the other woman's cheeks were wet with tears and her face was crumbling. The sight was distressing. Usually when Asher was upset, she went for stoic or angry, but Hermione had never seen her look so fragile. Her chest constricting at the scene before her, she gathered the other woman in her arms tightly, kissing her forehead, her hair, her cheeks. "You don't have to answer, I changed my mind," Hermione said desperately in an attempt to stop the tears. She had gone too far, pushed too hard. "I don't need to know."

"No," Asher said from her hiding place against Hermione's shoulder. "No. You do."

"Really, I don't, not if it's upsetting you like this--"

"Horcruxes."

Hermione felt herself tense up at the word; her arms were frozen in place around the other woman. "What?" she whispered, her voice harsh. What did she mean? She and Ron and Harry had gotten them all, she knew they had: Voldemort was dead.

"I was trying to find out how to make a horcrux."

Hermione jerked back, nearly falling off the couch. She stared at Asher with a horrified expression, her mouth agape. Hermione's uneasy thoughts returned to her full force, and she slid off the couch, snatching her wand up from the table and backing away. "That's-- that's dark magic," she said, her voice coming to her from far away. "Really dangerous, and-- and really dark, Ash!"

"I know, but I thought--"

"Nevermind what you thought!" Hermione exclaimed, feeling suddenly like she had never known Asher at all. "You're talking about tearing your soul in two! _You have to kill to do it!_ " she said, her words coming out high-pitched and shaky. Voldemort's horcruxes were the most evil thing she had ever come across, and she had seen firsthand what they had done to the wizard: He had always been power-hungry, but the splitting of his soul had left him heartless and cold and without boundaries. She thought of the books she had taken from Dumbledore's office after he had died, locked up in her vault in Gringott's. She could never let Asher know she had them.

"I-- I didn't know!" Asher said, looking pale. "I just wanted to-- Hermione!"

Hermione was descending the ladder hurriedly. Her instincts were telling her to run, her mind tumbling over on itself. _She was always antisocial, but I never knew she was into the Dark Arts. How could she want to create a horcrux? She's so strong, and there's that part of her that's so dark.. But she never seemed capable. She went looking for information on horcruxes. I can't tell her that I have what she needs. I can't. How could I have trusted her?_ As she hurried to her room, she felt like a hand was squeezing her heart.

 


	15. A Fool's Errand

_It started out to be such a good day,_ Asher thought numbly, still staring at the hole in her floor through which Hermione had fled.

She and Hermione had woken up at more or less the same time, staying in bed for an extra half an hour to savor the warmth of the covers before venturing into the slightly chilled living room. The fire had already been started, and Winky had come out with their breakfast as soon as she heard the two of them leave Asher's bedroom. They had eaten on the couch, teasing each other and laughing, and then Hermione had insisted they finish grading essays early so that they would have more time to spend worry-free.

_And now I've screwed it all up._ It was barely two in the afternoon, and the Potions professor now sat on her couch with one essay to grade before she would be free from responsibility, and no one to share that time with. _If I had just started in a different way.. If I had taken a moment to frame my words before I spoke.._

Hermione's mood had changed after Asher had playfully raised her from the couch to move into a position more conducive to snuggling. It had been easy-- she was very strong. _I shouldn't have done that._ She didn't know why it had flipped a switch, but it had; Hermione had then asked her the question she had dreaded answering the most. "Where did you go after you worked with the Ministry?"

Asher had closed her eyes then, remembering her futile quest and its eventual focus: Horcruxes. She knew how Hermione felt about them; the other woman had hunted the ones Voldemort had created for months, and been imprisoned and tortured in the process. She knew the story of the necklace that had tainted their thoughts and feelings when they wore it, and that had tried to pull Harry to the bottom of a lake when he plunged into it to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor.

It was a subject on which Hermione would not bend, Asher knew, but she might have been able to make her understand, except her ears had been buzzing and she had struggled to take in air at the thought of what this revelation might do to their relationship. She had fought the tears, but they had come out anyway, and she had felt her chin trembling with the effort to keep it together. Hermione had said she had changed her mind, but Asher knew it would be wrong not to tell her, not when she had asked so carefully, and not when the subject was so sensitive.

_If I hadn't panicked.._ She had cut through Hermione's words with one she knew would get her attention, the name of the things Hermione had so diligently searched for with the intent to destroy, the name of the things that had kept Voldemort alive and able to terrorize. It had worked: Hermione had been looking at her searchingly, waiting for her next words.

Asher should have taken the time to tell the whole story then, to start at the beginning, but she hadn't. Her mind had been jumbled with a mix of fear and guilt: fear of Hermione's reaction; guilt that she hadn't told her. And so she had told her the eventual object of her search, like a fool. The horror in Hermione's eyes had stabbed her in the gut, a blunt blow that had taken the air out of her lungs. Asher was finally facing what she feared most: judgment, from the one person she trusted more than anyone. And then Hermione had run from her.

It wasn't someone else's fear, or murder, or imprisonment that had taken someone she cared about from her this time. It had been Asher herself. McGonagall's words echoed to her from the past: "A fool's errand." It most certainly had been, and she was paying for it now.

She pulled her gaze from the ladder hole, hunching forward and burying her face in her hands. She was alone, as she had always been. What an idiot she had been for listening to Hermione's advice. "People are a lot more accepting than you might think." For most people this might be true, but not for her. What she was and the things she had done to try and rid herself of it was too much for people to accept. She never should have tried; when you brought people close to you, it hurt more when they left, and it seemed to Asher that people would always be leaving her.

She hadn't known how horcruxes were made. She hadn't known that you had to take a life to make one. If she had, she wouldn't have gone searching for a book on how to create them. That was how it had started. And this, being alone in her room with the warm spot Hermione had left fading, was its result.

The fluttering of wings woke her from her dark thoughts, and she sat up, wiping her face. Her hand came away with a mixture of tears and snot, and she gave a bitter snort. There would be no hiding from Amon the mood she was in. She rubbed her soiled hand on her robe, waiting for the bird to start in with closed eyes. She heard him alight on the coffee table, but he didn't speak.

When she finally opened her eyes again, he was looking at her with one intent eye. "You told her about your search for horcruxes." It wasn't a question, and as such, Asher felt no need to answer. The bird gave a sigh at her long silence. "I am sorry. Perhaps she'll come around."

"Doubtful," Asher said, her voice rough. "I messed up how I told her. I didn't get to tell her why I was looking for how to make one; she ran away from me before I could. She probably thinks I'm a dark witch now."

"If you went to her to explain, maybe?" Amon asked hopefully.

Asher shook her head. "Hermione hates horcruxes. She'll shut me out. I doubt she'd even let me into her office."

Uncharacteristically, the bird didn't tell her she was a coward for not trying. He alighted on her shoulder, gave it a brief squeeze with his talons, and then disappeared up into the rafters to give her time to be by herself.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione woke up the next day feeling the most conflicted she had ever felt in her life. Not even the moment when she had to choose between going with Ron and giving in to frustration or remaining with Harry and staying the improbable course had been so difficult. At least that time, the two possible paths had been clearly laid out before her.

Now she felt a mess; her feelings for Ash were all mixed up in her fears and her memories of the vile power of the horcruxes, which in turn were tangled with her knowledge that Asher had never caused problems at school, which was hopelessly entwined with a strange ache in her heart and a buzzing in her head, the latter of which she knew was fear. She couldn't even suss out the reason for the fear anymore-- or rather, the main reason for the fear.

It was two things that scared her, she knew, but which was stronger? The loss of something-someone- she cared about, or the fact that she had been wrong? Hermione, Queen of Knowledge, Proven Wrong. It was frightening, but it had happened before.

She alternated between tears and a numb kind of shock that left her staring into space. Belatedly she realized she'd left her students' essays in Asher's quarters; she would have to send a request for them later, when she was feeling steadier. For now, she would wait.

It was still incomprehensible to her how Asher could have wanted to create something so evil as a horcrux. A piece of yourself you could no longer fully feel or control, created with murder-- it was something that Hermione could hardly grasp could be done, much less the doing. Despite the dark parts of her, she could not imagine Asher being willing to do such a thing. But, she reminded herself, she still did not know Asher well. She knew more of her than she had, and enough to care deeply for her, but not enough to know what she was truly capable of.

Hermione knew some people-- in fact, many-- had hidden facets, but none whose concealed habits or beliefs contrasted starkly with how they presented themselves. Lucius Malfoy had always been a cold person, so it wasn't surprising that he was a Death Eater. Likewise, Dumbledore had always seemed kind to her, even in moments of discipline, and so his secret fight to find Voldemort's horcruxes and take down the Dark Lord was not all that surprising.

And so Hermione struggled between the obvious evil of wanting to create a horcrux and the kindness with which Asher usually conducted herself. The other woman could be distant at times, and when she felt threatened she might act cold or mean in an attempt to protect herself, but never once had Hermione witnessed anything close to violence or genuinely malicious intent in her. Furthermore, the only person Asher seemed to dislike with any real feeling was herself: The rest of the world might irritate her, but she preferred to ignore them rather than spend her energy on that fact.

Hermione sighed and dropped her head into her hands, staring dully at the fluffy blue rug under her feet. She wished in that moment that she and Ron had actually had something between them, because it had always been simple with him, if frustrating. In the rare times when she didn't understand his motivations, she could always go and ask Harry. She had no one to ask about Asher, because Asher didn't have any friends.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a deliberate tap-tap-tap on the windowpane by her bed. She stood and ambled to the window, releasing the catch. In swooped Amon, carrying a bundle of parchment. He deposited it on her bed, then settled at the end of her bed, claws carefully clutching the wooden footboard. "I snuck them out when she wasn't looking," he said. "Considering how raptly you were paying attention to them, I decided they were important."

Hermione picked up the bundle, which proved to be her forgotten essays. When she had last touched them she had been curled up on Asher's couch, her head in Asher's lap.. "Thank you." She kept her voice soft to disguise the sudden tightness of her throat. "I wasn't looking forward to going back and getting them."

"I gathered as much, when they were still sitting there this morning," the magpie said, rather pointedly.

She gave a small sigh. "I'm not going back, Amon. There's too much I don't understand--"

"Which you could learn by asking her," he cut in, sounding annoyed. "She's been writing you letters and tossing them since the wee hours. If you don't intervene soon, Vlad and I will be in danger of drowning in little balls of parchment." He fluffed his feathers and shook them out. "I like my home how it is, thank you."

"You tell me, then, but I'm not speaking to her. Horcruxes!" She said this with an exasperated expression and a flailing gesture of hands.

"I don't know anything about it," the bird said stiffly. When Hermione shot him a skeptical look, he insisted, "I don't! I wasn't allowed to go."

"Go where?" Hermione seized this tidbit with fervor. "She went somewhere?"

"She went everywhere, but don't ask me to draw you a map," the bird said irritably. "It was top secret. Not even the Headmistress knows where she traipsed off to for all that time."

"How long was she gone?" The detective in Hermione was sitting up straight, intrigued again by the hunt for clues.

"Oh, I don't pay much attention to the passage of time, but perhaps two years. Came back all thin and worn and smelly, too. Her hair was a rat's nest."

"She went alone?" Despite this new information, which filled in another piece of the puzzle, she still didn't know what it meant.

"She took Winky, but sent her back after about a year. The poor thing was half frozen, and wouldn't say a word about it." The bird gave her a sideways look, his head turned so one eye fixed her squarely in his sight. "I really shouldn't be telling you any of this."

"So why are you?" Hermione asked, curious herself.

"To keep it short, I like you, and you're good for her. She's been alone for too long, with only Winky and me for company. I'm not sure you understand how truly rare it is to see her smile."

"I do," Hermione said quietly, remembering the quiet black-haired girl who hurried in and out of classrooms and who kept her head down and who never really looked at anyone. "Only I never really paid attention." Suddenly she felt very guilty for never trying to include Asher when they were in school. She must have been very lonely. Just as suddenly, she remembered that Asher had wanted to create a horcrux-- _a horcrux!_ \-- and she once again didn't know what to feel.

Amon seemed to know what she was thinking, because after a long moment he said, "If you'll accept speculation, I don't think she understood what a horcrux was. I don't know what it is, either, but I gather from the way you reacted that it's bad. I've known her since she was a child, and she might be tough to communicate with at times, but she's not a bad person."

"A horcrux is an item that you've used to contain a part of your soul," Hermione said, struck for a moment at how odd it was to be explaining this to a magpie. "You split the piece of your soul off by killing someone. I spent months hunting the ones Voldemort had made so that we could destroy him for good."

They were both silent for several minutes. Finally, Amon said, a sorrowful note in his voice, "Ah. Now I understand."

"You understand what?" Hermione asked with exasperation, but Amon only gave her a last, pointed look and flew out the window. She opened her mouth to call after him, but he was soon out of sight and she shut it again, frustrated and confused. Whatever Amon understood was lost on her, and she felt quite out of her depth, a sensation she had disliked as far back as she could remember.


	16. Goodbye

Asher entered her quarters after dinner, feeling tired and empty. Hermione had not been there, a trend as of late. She filled the cauldron by the fire with water again, then watered her wilting plants. She had not been taking care of them very well the last few weeks, not since The Conversation. She hadn't been taking very good care of herself, either, but that didn't feel as important as her neglect of the plants.

She sat heavily at her desk, fed Vlad with a tossed toad, and only then noticed a small roll of parchment lying innocently next to her pens. She reached for it, and hesitated. Had Hermione finally written her? Was she sure she wanted to open it?

"That was brought by a very official-looking owl," came Amon's voice, and he flitted down a moment later to settle on the miniature cauldron. "I relieved him of it, although he was quite keen on delivering it to you personally. I might have told him you enjoy owls as a delicacy to dissuade him." Asher gave a small laugh, glancing at the teal-winged magpie. He stared at her with his customary one eye. "Aren't you going to open that?"

She sighed. If it was from an official owl, it probably wasn't from Hermione. She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, reading the heading; it had been sent from Alcatraz. It was not her mother's flowing script, but the standardized font used by prison officials. It read:

_Dear Ms. Erised,_

_We regret to inform you that your relative's health has declined. Your relative has stated that she is unlikely to improve. We invite you to visit your relative to discuss this matter. Please call or write to notify the office before appearing for your visitation._

_Alcatraz Staff_

Asher's heart felt icy, frozen. Her mother was dying? That was what the letter implied, in its clinical way. She hadn't visited since before she had started teaching, but her mother hadn't looked worse than one would expect a person in maximum security to look. It couldn't be true. She set the letter down, carefully, almost as if it might explode, and sighed.

She turned from the sight of it restlessly and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk, opposite the toad habitat. She pressed a switch on the inside on the opposite side of the panel with the handle, and a small click accompanied the lift of a false bottom. Carefully, she lifted it out, revealing a small, gently sloped golden bowl filled halfway with a silvery-black liquid.

Careful not to let the liquid slop over the sides, she raised it gently with the fingertips of both hands and set it before her on the desk. But for the color of the bowl and the liquid, it looked much like Dumbledore's Pensieve; its function was similar, but instead of memories, it held dreams. She stared at it numbly for a moment, knowing that even if she bottled the pertinent one and sent it along with her letter, Hermione would not be able to see it. Asher had invented the Dreamcatcher, and this was the only one she had made.

She had not created it for money or for notoriety-- she had made it for personal use. She had thought that a Pensieve would show her dreams to her after the fact, but she had found that they were not compatible. It was after much research and speculation that she had realized why: Dreams were only memory in part. They fed on recollection, but the ultimate product of their meld with the sleeping mind was something very different and much more primal. The Pensieve was made with silver, the metal of rationality, and enchanted with spells meant to preserve what had been seen and experienced while the mind was awake. Dreams were made up of memories, but before they were perceived by the person having them, they were mixed with deep emotions and wishes to make something wild and unknown. Silver was not the right metal, and neither were the enchantments on the Pensieve fitting for the task. Gold was much more malleable, like dreams, but her first attempt with a solid gold bowl had not gone as planned. Asher then experimented with a silver and gold blend, on the supposition that dreams were memories in part, and needed an appropriate metal to bind to. Endless variations later, she had finally found the proper ratio: sixteen parts gold to one part silver.

She poked the contents with her wand, summoning the dream she wanted. A single strand rose to the surface, not smooth like memories, but branched and frayed like an old string. She prodded it, and the strand spread to cover the surface of the bowl.

It was a dream she had revisited more times than she could count, both in the Dreamcatcher and in recurrent episodes. In it, her father cooked merrily with her mother in their kitchen, bumping his hip playfully with hers as they prepared the ingredients. Her laughter filled the room, mingling with her father's chuckles. There were no cuts on Marion's hands, no circles beneath her eyes. The room held a warm glow, comforting and happy. Asher sat at the table, smiling along with her parents' antics, and they pulled each other in for a kiss. But then the fire went out, and the room instantly chilled. Her mother still kissed her father, but Asher could see his energy failing. A cloud of emotion, thought, everything that made her father himself swelled out of him. She watched as her mother's energy sucked it in like smoke up a flue. Her father collapsed, and the dream ended.

Every pleasant dream she had ever had about her mother had ended as a nightmare. Asher had happy memories of her, many of them, but in dreams they never stayed happy. And now, her mother's life, with all its happy years with her father, was also coming to an unpleasant end, according to her mother.

She replaced the Dreamcatcher, realizing that she had to go. She had to know the truth. And if it was true, she had to say goodbye.

Alcatraz, even renovated by wizards, was a forbidding place. As Asher disembarked from the small transport boat, she gazed up at the prison, which was mostly hidden by a long two story building that she knew housed the witches and wizards on staff. For a high-security ward, it looked almost quaint, built of off-white stone with regularly spaced windows. It reminded her of small town muggle high school. These were not normally ominous, but they did not house dangerous and evil magic users, and that use had soured the seemingly benign image of the place. There was a feeling here that Asher had never felt anywhere else-- a mix of desperation, hopelessness, and anger-- that seeped from the inmates into the air, and it was contagious. It wasn't her imagination, either; all of the employees, even the wardens, were restricted to an inflexible rotation where they lived and worked here three months, and then took three months off to recover.

She hiked up the path, which was built into a small bluff and jackknifed several times so that people and vehicles could ascend at a gentle incline. It was a long walk, and she was slightly out of breath when she reached the top, but now she could see the prison itself. It was almost as she remembered, but around one of the windows, she could see scorch marks and smoke damage. The door was where it had always been, and she walked up to it, drawing her wand and touching the tip to a small indent at its side that appeared to be graffiti. The gap widened into a hole, and her wand was pulled from her hand and out of sight.

"Erised, Asher?" queried a disembodied Southern drawl.

"That's me. Here to see Marion Erised. I called a few hours ago."

There was a pause. "Yeah, we got that in the books. You're cleared to enter."

The door opened, and Asher entered, a prickle in her scalp. She had always felt as though walking into this place unarmed was a grave mistake, and that had not changed. The pervasive off feeling was stronger here, as one would expect, and to one who was only exposed to it occasionally it was almost like trying to push through a hedge.

She looked over the small counter into the guard room-- Southern Drawl was a short, stocky wizard with no hair and a spirited soul patch, dressed in the guards' prison uniform of bright green robes, in order to be seen easily in an altercation. Asher gave him a grim smile, and he nodded curtly. Another guard, a woman who looked unnaturally well-pressed for working in such a place, fell into step beside her, ostensibly to lead her to her mother. Asher could feel the eyes of the other guards on her, though, and she knew it was because of who her mother was, and the condition she was in. They were afraid, and they would be watching her closely.

They hung a right. Most of the prisoners couldn't see much of Asher, but she could hear their whispers. They knew who she was. These were the most insidious magical criminals from all corners of the United States, but she could smell their fear, even over the body odor and mustiness.

When they turned left with the corridor, she could see the inmates in Section 1, and they could see her. She made eye contact but briefly. They were cared for here, certainly better than the prisoners in Azkaban, but without the use of their magic, most of them tended to fall into a disheveled, depressed sort of state, and it was not a pleasant thing to see.

They descended uneven steps into the basement, the dimness changing to gloom and the temperature dropping perceptibly. As clean as the prison was kept, it still smelled faintly of must and decay. Here, they kept the most dangerous of the lot, the deadly and the insane and the murderous. Each cell was separated from the others by several feet of enchanted and warded concrete, and the cells themselves were hermetically sealed, so that the rare visitor would not only be unable to touch the prisoner, but also unable to breathe the same air. In her mother's case, this was of vital importance.

Asher let the guard navigate as her stomach jumped. In the letter she'd received after her initial reply, they had said that Marion, though medicated with the potion her father had invented, was increasingly unstable, and though she had been eating well enough, she appeared to be starving. Asher knew in her gut what this meant, but she did not want to think about it. They were probably wrong, anyway. They knew little about succubi, and did not listen to what her mother had to say about being one; as they were accustomed to lies from the prisoners, the guards did not make a habit of believing them.

She became aware of a sudden silence; looking up, she realized the guard's boots had stopped clunking on the stone floor and they had reached her destination. "I'm going in now," she said in warning.

The guard's eyes widened, then narrowed. "This Section does not permit personal contact."

"I have spoken at length with each of your wardens," Asher said, annoyed, "and I long ago signed the waiver, as you should be aware. Furthermore, she could not feed on me even if she wanted to. I am her flesh and blood."

The guard looked hesitant. "I'm not sure--"

Asher waved a hand impatiently. "I am. I don't even need you to perform the spell-- this ward will recognize me and let me pass. It was intended as a courtesy, so that you would be aware of what I was about to do and wouldn't call for unnecessary backup." She gestured at the shimmering ward, which was currently opaque. Pointedly, she repeated, "I'm going in now." She turned to face the barrier, steeling herself to enter, to see her mother again. Heart thumping loudly, she stepped through.

Her mother came into view, and for one crystalline moment Asher remembered her as she had been years ago, serene and smiling, with long glossy black hair and delicately pale skin and caribbean-blue eyes. But the vision faded, and her mother's hair became dull, her skin pasty, her eyes tinged with grey. She had always been thin, but now her cheekbones were pronounced and her deft fingers spidery. Marion Erised's lips turned up in a smile, but her eyes were melancholy.

"Daughter," she said softly, and Asher nearly cried at how lifeless her mother's formerly melodious voice sounded. Marion noticed this, and patted the bed beside her. "Come. Sit."

Asher sat, pulling her mother into a hug and feeling with dismay how bony her entire body was. When they parted, she put a hand on her mother's, and said haltingly, "So-- so it's true, then."

Marion's smile faded. "Yes. I am dying."

There was an extended silence. Asher didn't know what to say, how to react to this truth. She could see it; her mother was declining. Her throat tightened. Regardless of everything that had happened, she couldn't remember a part of her life without her mother in it, and she couldn't imagine a future without her. It was simply unfathomable.

Marion broke the silence. "Do you know why I named you Asher, and not some variant of Meridian?" Asher shook her head. Her mother continued with a small smile and looked down at her lap. "In the bible, Asher was an eighth son, only one of many before him. He managed to have children, and he moved them from his known world, Canaan, and into Egypt. I had always hoped that you would take our heritage in a new direction, and so I broke tradition."

There was a long pause again, and then, "A full succubus would have broken free of the potion by now, Asher. Like the mirror, it is a temporary fix, albeit one that allows for social relationships. I had thought, being half-blooded, it would simply take a little longer, but you have remained in control. We taught you wrong, Ash, but only because what we thought we knew was not so." She took in a deep breath, raising her eyes to her daughter's.

Asher only stared. Her heartbeat masked the sound of her mother's labored breathing. It pounded sharply, the screams of the others in isolation muted now. Her brain was similarly silent, stunned.

"This does not mean that you are not dangerous." A whisper, almost unheard. "You can still take. But you do not have to. If you needed it, as I do, it would have taken control of you years ago."

"Why are you only telling me this now?" Asher whispered harshly, her voice quiet to keep from shouting. "I have searched for answers to the problem of my hunger, traveled the world attempting to fix myself. I spent nearly all the money I had trying, and now you tell me I didn't have to? I have taken, Mama, and I almost did not that long ago. If not for the potion..." The anger driving her monologue faded, chased by sadness, and she quieted.

"It would have happened eventually," Marion said quietly, "what I did to your father. Once a year, I abstained from the potion, and went among the people and quietly drank from them. If I went to the right place, what I needed was there, already available for the taking, hanging like ripe fruit to be picked." She stopped for a moment, plucking imaginary lint off of her plain white dress. "You can feed from more than one person, spread the burden. It leaves them confused and a little weak, but whole. But it was not enough." She crushed a portion of the dress in her hand. "I tried to pretend that it was, but the truth is that I had not fed from anyone since I had married your father, not the way I was meant to. Every year, I grew weaker by a small amount. If I had not forgotten the potion that night, I might have lasted until you were much older than you are now." She released the dress, forcing her hand flat on her thigh, smoothing the rumpled cloth. "But I have not fed now for nearly ten years, and my body will not last much longer. You, too, would feel this by now if you were as I am." She smiled, and touched Asher's cheek. "But you are not. I have managed to break the cycle of death we need to survive."

Asher closed her eyes at her mother's touch, fighting to accept this new truth. "How?" She finally managed. "How can I control myself? When I love someone..." She trailed off, unable to finish.

Marion smiled sadly. "I cannot show you," she said. "Not here, not under the potion's grip. I will never be able to show you. But I will write you letters. They still allow me those." This was accompanied by a bitter laugh. "I will explain how it feels, what to do. But it really comes down to one thing, and that is self-control. Your stubbornness will aid you there." She smiled, but a flash of something Asher couldn't identify streaked through her expression, and she crumpled, bent double on the edge of the bed.

"Mama!" Asher cried, looking wildly around for a guard, a medic, anyone.

"They can't help," she whispered, her voice strangled. "My body is shutting down. You should go, before the worst of it hits."

"The worst?" Asher asked, dismay in her tone.

"Every day, near the end of the potion's cycle--" she gasped, as if in pain-- "my body becomes desperate. They've begun overlapping the doses--" a moan scraped from her throat. "Please, Asher, go. They will be coming soon. _Please._ I will write." She gripped her own waist fiercely, and what Asher could see of her face was contorted.

Asher stood, staring at her mother for one last, lingering moment. She heard guards approaching, whispered, "I love you," and left. She collected her wand from the guard post and walked out into the California sunshine. It felt wrong to be in the sun while her mother died painfully in chains, but the bright day reminded her that she had a small amount of hope. Perhaps, with much practice, she could live free of the potion. Maybe she wasn't the ticking bomb her mother was. Just possibly, she could end the cycle that had continued for thousands of years.


	17. The Truth

Hermione carried on through her days after The Truth, as she'd begun to call it, but The Truth followed her. She would be lecturing her fourth-years, or demonstrating for her first-years, and a single word would rush into her mind. The first dozen or so times it had happened, she had stumbled over her words or nearly missed her target. _Horcruxes,_ her mind would whisper, and everything she attached to that word-- the horror of Voldemort, torture at the Malfoys' mansion, The Battle, what she had done to her parents, The Truth-- would whistle through and obliterate her train of thought.

The Truth was more than an unpleasant revelation about a woman she cared about; it was a destruction of their balance together. Hermione could not imagine a future with that knowledge in it where she was also with Asher. Asher and The Truth, as inseparable as they were, were mutually exclusive for her; she could not live with them both.

She learned to work over the sounds and images the word brought, but once she had released her last student and graded her last essay, all pretense dropped and she retreated to her quarters to thumb distractedly through tomes picked at near-random from the library. With nothing genuinely important to fill this time, her chest tight and aching, she simply sat and thought about the word. _Horcruxes._

Always, she returned to the same questions-- How could Asher even contemplate making one? How had Hermione missed dark leanings in a person she had spent so many of her days and nights with? She bitterly thanked the universe for keeping her from giving herself fully to Asher-- they had never progressed past kissing and wandering hands, and they had never said that they loved each other.

_But you do love her,_ she thought in the deepest, quietest part of herself. This was why she couldn't shake her intense melancholy, she knew, but she tried to ignore this fact. She told herself that it was silly to fall in love with someone after only a couple of months; no one as practical as she could let their heart do something so foolish so quickly. Never mind that her chest hurt whenever she overheard Asher's name or glimpsed her in the halls. Never mind that her dreams were full of gentle moments with the Potions professor. No, she couldn't have given her heart so rashly.

Eventually, after her mind was tired and her body longed for rest, she would curl up in bed with one last question in her head: What had Amon understood, and why hadn't he told her what it was? She often had the feeling that if she had been thinking more clearly, the answer would be obvious. But her brain was clouded, and the solution evaded her. She rarely fell asleep free of this frustration.

She knew that students and professors alike had figured out that something was amiss with the two professors, to varying degrees. Ceasing to attend group meals was probably not the smartest decision, but she couldn't bear it; her seat remained next to Asher's, and the few meals she had attempted to sit through had been nearly unbearable. Even forcing out a polite greeting had been a monumental effort, and she had not been able to meet the other professor's eyes.

Weeks passed, time easing the population at Hogwarts into April and exams. The pace of studying increased frantically, essays doubled and tripled in length, and the grounds became ever more deserted as students buckled down. The hallways became fraught with the usual panic before exams; the typical-- and largely fraudulent-- charms and items passed hands, and prefects and professors were asked to double up on their patrol time, even during weekends. Hermione was assigned to the corridors surrounding her classroom, and kept a vigilant eye; therefore she could not miss the incident that Friday that should have claimed a student's life.

An overwrought second-year, frightened that his poor grades in several subjects would prevent his progress to third year, had bought a bracelet that the seller claimed would sharpen his mind and allow him to read and write more quickly. The second-year had attempted to activate it right there in the hall, but whatever spell it had been loaded with had backfired, blasting the unfortunate boy backwards into one of the marble statues. Hermione, at the other end of the hall, had looked up at the noise to see the statue toppling towards the boy's slack body. She had taken off at a run, but she was too far and her aim was too poor to shoot a spell that distance. She shouted desperately as she ran, but she knew she would be too late.

It was then that a blue blur had sped from around the corner and launched itself between the boy and the falling sculpture, stopping it before it could crush him. Hermione saw as she approached that it was Asher; she had her arms under it, knees bent, and she was heaving it back to its base. Hermione skidded to a stop as she watched the woman move it as easily as the Transfiguration professor might have moved a rolled rug: Unwieldy, but perfectly manageable. She shook herself, setting her mind back to the task at hand, conjuring a stretcher for the unconscious boy and preparing to walk him to the infirmary. Her eyes met Asher's for a second among whispers and gasps, but the intensity of that look drove her to break eye contact. She gathered her wits, then turned away, assuming that the Potions professor had the situation in hand.

Later that night, having settled the boy and given a full report to McGonagall, she remembered how trifling the immense weight of the statue had been to Asher. Hermione still often forgot that the other woman was only half human. She possessed great strength, a heightened metabolism, and impressive speed. She had said her mother was even stronger than she was. What little Hermione had been able to find on succubi had stated that after a "meal," these attributes increased even above the succubus's normal range.

That display of strength _had_ been her normal range. Asher had not fed on a human for several years, and even then it had been accidental. Hermione knew she would not have done it on purpose-- she was afraid of killing someone. If she had been in that situation, Hermione knew, she would give almost anything not to submit to that part of herself.

_Horcruxes,_ her mind prompted in its random way, and understanding spread over her like a sunrise. Asher wanted more than anything to be free of her heritage-- she had never explicitly said it, but the Mirror had. It was Asher's heart's desire to be human, normal, and safe. What if-- Hermione's gut rebelled at this, but she hushed it-- what if Asher had heard of these pieces of the Dark Lord's soul and thought, "Here's my chance"? What if she believed that she could trap that traitorous part of herself inside an object, separate and controlled? She had said that she hadn't known she had to kill to make one, but Hermione had dismissed that before. Revisiting the moment logically, she realized that if Asher didn't have a problem with killing someone to divide her soul, why would she care that she was half-succubus? Why would she bother taking the potion religiously? Why would the Mirror show her what it had?

"I've been an idiot," she uttered, leaning her forehead on the heels of her hands. Amon had laid it out directly in front of her, and she had looked right past it. Her recent glimpse at Asher flashed through her mind's eye: Black hair mussed, multicolored eyes resting above deep bags, and the look in them.. Desperately sad, that look had been, and not a trace of the anger Hermione felt she deserved.

She had to speak to Asher. She had to tell her she was sorry, even though she knew it wouldn't be enough. She glanced at the time, surprised to realize it wasn't as late as she thought, and hurried to dress herself presentably. She fussed with her hair, scolding herself and stilling her hands after she realized she was doing it. She snatched up her wand, stuffed it in the pocket of her robes, and began the walk to the classroom above which Asher lived.

Breathing heavily, she finally reached the classroom door and pushed inside. As she expected, the ladder was retracted, restricting access to the tower rooms. "Blue," she whispered. Nothing happened; Asher had finally changed the password. She pointed her wand at the hole, releasing the knocking spell, and waited. She felt the minutes tick by in silence, but there was no response. She stared up at circular gap in the ceiling, words she needed to say burning her throat, waiting for a sign of the other woman, but none came. _Tomorrow,_ she vowed, and left.


	18. Chi

###  **Earlier That Evening**

Asher sat in her quarters at the cherrywood desk, sipping at a tumbler of scotch and reviewing the afternoon's events. She had just waved off Amon, who had been literally crowing at her miraculous save of the boy. She had planned on getting soundly drunk and forgetting the whole thing had happened, but with his persistent chatter she had been unable to erase the other part of the afternoon-- her encounter with Hermione.

There had been so little time for either of them to react; Asher had been around the corner and Hermione down the hall. She'd heard the bang and the thud of the boy's body hitting the statue, and as she'd run she had tried to think of a spell, but none had come. Thank the heavens she was strong enough to stop the statue. Her arms still ached, bruised from the force of the marble falling, but she had managed. And even before she had finished returning the statue to its base, she had smelled Hermione.

A part of her had wanted to hide, but she couldn't-- she was a teacher, directly involved in the incident. She wouldn't even normally have been in that corridor, except she had been escorting a student to the headmistress's office for cheating.

Another part of her wanted to stay, to hold Hermione and apologize, and even though she knew she couldn't do that, she hadn't been able to keep herself from looking at the other professor. Asher sighed. She knew she had looked a mess-- still did-- but she knew that wasn't why Hermione had looked away so quickly.

She pushed these thoughts from her mind and instead reached for a drawer, pulling a bundle of parchment from within. She unrolled them and began to read, again, her mother's recent letters.

"When among a charged crowd, you will find it hard to focus on one person at a time-- this is actually a boon. It is when your hunger is focused on one soul that it is more difficult to rein in. This does not mean that those in the crowd will not focus on you, being drawn to your power. The best way to deal with those who approach is a firm but not unkind denial, followed by clear disinterest in your body language."

"It is a myth that we feed on purely sexual energy. We feed on the life-energy, or the chi, of a person. Take too much, and they will die."

"Mistake me not-- without the potion, there will always be a part of you that you must hold back when with someone you love. Even women of our line cannot control our emotions, and when they become involved, even those with experience-- which you, my darling, unfortunately do not have-- find it a challenge to control their hunger."

Asher had been practicing. On the weekends, she would abstain from the potion and go to pubs, inns, or muggle concerts, and would simply stand and sense the crowd. In these places they were bursting with life, and she could feel each soul if she focused hard enough. Once, she even noticed one person who had very little energy compared to the rest; when she sought him out, he was a middle-aged man in the process of having a heart attack. Through these experiences, she learned how to control herself and her hunger with more confidence.

She also learned what it was to deal with those drawn to her. In her mother's letters, she had learned that some humans could become addicted to the feeling of a succubus's power-- these were the ones who took no heed of a firm dismissal, but continued pursuing her. She tried out the various tactics her mother had suggested for these, learning which worked for her and which she couldn't pull off.

Sighing, she replaced the letters back in her desk, taking another drink of scotch and staring unseeing at the desktop. Always, after she reviewed the letters, she felt bitterness that her mother was not around to actually show her these things. Anger, too-- anger that her father was dead, anger that her mother had gotten caught, anger simply that she was what she was. She had never asked for this life. She almost wished her mother had not loved her father, so that she could be comfortable with being a full succubus instead of uncomfortable being part-human. From what her mother had said in her letters, Marion had felt no remorse being who she was-- that is, until she had met Darius Fudge.

"Amon?" she queried, knowing the bird was somewhere in the rafters.

He appeared a moment later, sweeping down onto her desk with a flourish. "You rang?"

She smiled faintly, then asked, "Do you ever wish you were a regular bird? That you could just... be with them and be normal?"

He tilted his head one way, and then the other, looking at her with each eye. "I would ask if that was the alcohol talking, but I gather you're serious." She nodded, and he preened his feathers a moment to think. "Sometimes," he said finally, "I wish that there were more like me. It does get rather lonely, being one of a kind. But there are things I can do that others cannot. Things I know that they could never fathom." He hopped a little closer, fixing one eye on Asher. "People I never would have met if I were 'normal'." He gave a little snap of his beak, then said, "Whatever the costs, I believe that being what I am is worth those things."

Asher smiled at him, with warmth this time. She reached over and gently stroked his back, between his wings, something she rarely did and he rarely tolerated. But he let her this time, sensing her need to show him some affection.

The knocking spell interrupted, the tower shaking faintly with the booms. She looked at the clock; who on earth was knocking at this hour? She walked over to the ladder hole, opened the trapdoor, and asked, "Who is it?"

"Minerva. I need you to come down at once, please."

She glanced at Amon, feeling troubled. Had the student not made it? Had a parent made a complaint about her obviously inhuman strength? It must be serious if McGonagall had come at this hour. She put the scotch down, glad for her metabolism, and snatched up her wand, starting down the ladder.

She hurried down, skipping steps in her haste. She knew she could slide down, but didn't feel like damaging her hands without gloves on, and who knew who was waiting for her at the bottom? A parent or someone from the Ministry might see her as reckless, and if she was about to be under scrutiny, that would be unhelpful. Nearing the bottom, she ceased skipping steps and slowed her speed. Belatedly she wished she'd at least taken a brush to her hair.

Her feet touched stone, and she turned. Minerva was looking at her in a way she'd never done before, and when Asher saw the robes of the person standing next to her, she knew why. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she clutched at the ladder for support. Her heart felt overly loud, and she felt the color go out of her face. "You're from the prison," she managed after a moment, staring at the bright green robes. "And you're here to tell me that my mother is dead."

"I am the under-warden." The man smiled wryly at her. "And even at Alcatraz, it's not the sort of thing we do in a letter. But that's not exactly it. She's asking for you." He paused, scratching his chin. "Normally we don't pay much mind, but she is--" He stopped again, searching for words. "She is very clearly not long for this world, Ms. Erised. Before I invite you to come see her, I must ask you something."

Asher stared at the man. "Then ask."

"You have spoken to each of our wardens, signing a release, and claiming that she cannot feed on you, as you are her blood. Will this hold true even when her body is--” he paused-- “as I understand it, she is almost completely a creature of instinct now, desperate to survive. Will some part of her overcome that.. barrier, in her desperation?"

She was silent a long moment; the truth was that she didn't know. The wardens were unaware that Asher was genuinely half-human, and that made her doubt. When her mother hadn't been dying, she had been fine, but now? Even the part of her that was related might not be enough to stop her mother's instincts from feeding on any human she could get, even if it wasn't a full one. If she went, she could be sending herself to an early grave, and leaving her mother with the knowledge that she had killed the only family she had left, as well as more time in prison.

Seeing her hesitate to answer, Minerva stepped in. "I don't believe so. There has never been a case of a succubus feeding either on mother or daughter. It is generally believed, by succubi and those who study them, that it cannot be done." She stopped, sending an apologetic look at Asher. "However, Asher is not a full succubus. She is part human. I cannot speak to what might happen with that truth."

The under-warden looked troubled. "Then I cannot let you enter her cell. But if you want to, you can come and see her." He grimaced. "I warn you.. it's not an easy thing to witness."

Mind racing, Minerva asked Asher, "Have you taken your potion yet?"

Asher glanced at her, eyebrows pinched. "No. Why?"

McGonagall rushed on, half watching the under-warden. "If you have not suppressed the-- for lack of a more relevant term-- predator inside of you, sensing it may override her urge to feed."

"May?" Questioned the warden, looking doubtful.

"This is a largely unexplored area of magic, even with my expertise," Minerva said, a bit more sharply than she meant. More gently, a subtle apology, she said, "You would be hard-pressed to find anyone else with the knowledge needed to speculate on this topic." Pinching her lips together, she continued, "It should be safe enough, without the potion and considering their familial bond."

Asher couldn't stop herself from boring holes in the side of the warden's head as he considered.

Finally, the warden said, "Safe enough will have to do. Come with me."

Saying her thanks to Minerva, Asher followed him as they hurried to the gates and left the grounds of Hogwarts. Before they apparated to the transport point near the prison, she picked out Hermione's quarters from the dozens of other windows in that area of the castle. Full of things it would be no use to say, she sent a wordless, sad mental cry, and then they were gone.

Half a world away, Hermione approached Asher's quarters, but Asher knew nothing of it as she took the last steps to her mother's cell in the lonely island prison. The protective ward had gone clear, and she could see her mother, though not hear her, screaming her desperate death cries.

Feeling rage and sadness well from her deepest self, Asher gave an involuntary sob. Her mother was no more than skin and bones under a torn, dirty dress, and her claw-like hands were scrabbling at the ward, searching for sustenance. Asher could see that her mother's eyes had gone milky--she was blind. Asher wanted to scream at the injustice of it, that her mother would die sightless and in pain.

She charged through the ward before anyone could stop her and grabbed her mother to her, shouting over her mother's screams, "I'm here, I'm here, please," which devolved into cries of her own. Her safety did not occur to her-- her mother was dying, and she had asked for her to be here, so here she would stay.

Marion's wounded cries fell to mewling moans as she realized her daughter was with her. Asher could pick out words here and there, words like "love" and "so sorry". She only held her tighter, hushing her. "I know, Mama, I know. I love you too. It's okay. I'm not angry-- it's okay." These last words came out trembling and her voice could not quite carry them through, because her mother's body had gone slack, as if these words were what she had needed to let go. She could no longer sense her mother's chi.

She later remembered being torn away from her mother's body by disembodied green arms and screaming at the night air. She was not entirely sure how she had come to be back at Hogwarts, but she woke to reality in Minerva's private quarters with a mug of coffee heavily laced with firewhisky in her hands.

"There you are," said a gentle, relieved voice. Asher looked up from the mug to green eyes watching her. "You weren't quite here for some time."

Asher tried to speak, but her chest squeezed and her voice failed her. She nodded instead, sipping from the mug.

"I can arrange for a proctor to hold your exams for you," Minerva said, "if you need some time to yourself. I would understand."

"I don't know." Asher felt as if she didn't know anything at all in that moment, much less if she needed time off. Faintly an alarm dinged in her head, but she didn't know what it meant.

Sensing the loss of agency in her, Minerva began, "I gather that things have not been going well between yourself and Ms. Granger, but I can summon her if--"

Asher waved her off. "She learned of my... trip. She hasn't spoken to me since."

"I see." The truth was, she didn't-- Asher had not even told her exactly what had happened on that journey.

The young woman must have sensed this, because she sighed, then said, "I searched for a way to make a horcrux." Before Minerva could scold her, she continued, "I didn't truly know what they were, only that they might allow me to rid myself of my urges. I didn't understand what it took to make them. If I had.." She trailed off. "Anyway, Hermione didn't let me explain that part, and what little I did manage to tell her before she left, she didn't believe."

Now the headmistress understood. "She must have thought you were a dark witch."

"Did, and still does, I'm sure. I've heard tales of her in class, staring off into space or miscasting spells." _I did that to her._

Minerva nodded. "As have I. I'd thought it was a result of your... relationship not working out."

Asher knew better, and didn't speak, taking a long draught of the spiked coffee. After a few long moments, she said, "I'd better head back to my tower, let you get some rest." She set the drink down and stood, smiling sadly at her mentor and surrogate parent. "Thanks."

Minerva smiled sadly back and watched her go, wondering if she could convince Winky to inform on her mistress for the next few weeks.


	19. A Lasting Happiness

Instead of going back to her tower, as she had said, Asher went walking on the grounds. She passed the herbology greenhouses, then Hagrid's hut, and skirted the edges of the forest, listening to the night calls of the creatures who lived there. She finally settled, cross-legged, at the lake, watching the giant squid dance its tentacles in the moonlight.

This was how Hermione found her, and she paused some distance away, taking in the small figure staring out at the water. As she watched, Asher's head bowed, and she could see her shoulders shaking. Slowly, she walked to meet her.

Asher heard the steps and assumed it was Minerva. "I just needed not to think," she said as the footfalls stopped a few feet behind her.

"I imagine so," came a voice that did not belong to the headmistress.

Slowly, Asher turned her head and saw Hermione. For a moment, the emptiness inside broke and gave way, but she warned herself not to get hopeful and turned back to the water. "How did you know I was here?"

"A little birdie told me," Hermione said with a half-smile. She moved up farther and sat next to the Potions professor, pulling her cloak close against the chilled air. She caught a faint "Damn meddling bird" from the other woman's lips and inwardly chuckled. "He's worried about you. He says you haven't spoken to him since you left."

Asher gave a bitter puff of air. "I've barely spoken to anyone. Why are you speaking to me, anyway? Don't you hate me?" She realized this wasn't the gentlest way to broach the subject, but she was clear out of gentle after what she had just witnessed.

"No."

"One wouldn't know it."

"I know." Hermione took in a difficult breath. "And I'm sorry."

Asher turned and shot her a wary look, but said nothing.

"I know it's not enough," the Transfiguration professor said, her voice hushed. "I wasn't thinking straight, and I ascribed characteristics to you that, if I had been, I would have recognized as ridiculous. I bollocksed it all up, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

Asher heard the truth in Hermione's voice, and had some of her own to speak. "I screwed up, too. I approached it all wrong. I even knew it at the time, but.." _I was scared._ "What it did to you, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that either." The words came more easily than she might have expected, but maybe that was because she'd been rehearsing them for weeks.

An awkward silence followed as they looked at each other. Asher felt torn. She wanted so badly to grab Hermione up and show her how sorry she was-- somehow-- but in the wake of her mother's death that feeling couldn't quite reach the surface. Hermione didn't dare touch her because of what she'd just been through, knowing how fragile she could be, not knowing what would happen.

Finally, Hermione extended a hand, palm-up, and rested it on the grass between them. There were words, important words, on her tongue, but she was afraid to say them. She saw Asher hesitate, then slowly place her hand in Hermione's.

Instantly Asher knew what the alarm in her head had been earlier-- she hadn't taken her potion on her return. Her power flared at the touching of hands and she could sense Hermione intimately. She could feel the words she hadn't said-- Hermione loved her. Her heart lifted, and so did her instinct to feed.

The bushy-haired woman gasped at the contact. She was transported back to her office that day when she had first discovered Asher wasn't quite what she seemed-- surrounded by an aura of mystery and allure. She froze, staring helplessly at the woman who held her hand. Just like the other time, she wanted to give in to it, find out what would happen, and she now knew that it would be bad if she did so; fear rose like bile in her throat.

Asher, formerly so confident in her new abilities, saw Hermione's aura, felt her chi, and was tempted beyond anything she'd known before. Even Esmera hadn't held such warm, delicious promise. Hermione was vibrant, full of life and magic and feeling, and Asher's experience with her mother's starvation had stirred her instinct into survival mode. Her heart pounded and the heart of herself rebelled against action even as the darkest part screamed at her to feed. She knew her gaze was hungry, knew her face was predatory, and with everything she had, she closed her eyes and shoved it away. It fought her, screeching, and she was dismayed when she felt part of Hermione's chi seep into her with an explosion of power.

It took her breath away, and her eyes opened with the shock of it. Hermione could see that her pupils had fully dilated, and her eyes were black and depthless; fear filled her. She screamed, and so did Asher, fighting the urge to let more in. _This is not who I am,_ she roared back at the storm in her head. _I am not my mother; I am human, too. I don't need this!_ Using the last of her will, she clamped down on her hunger and refused to let go, feeling it dwindle inch by inch as it raged. She shut her eyes tight and raged back: _No, no, no, no!_ She didn't know how long it took, but finally she felt it pause, then stop, and she could breathe again.

Hermione stared, wide-eyed and weak, as she felt the power lessen its hold on her. The look in Asher's eyes had not been human in those moments. Even though her head was spinning and she was frightened beyond anything she'd ever felt before, she knew the real Asher was the one who had battled that-- Hermione didn't even know what to call it, except that it wasn't the woman she loved. It was her first real glimpse of Asher's reality, and she now understood just how desperate the other woman must have been to banish it from her.

Still shaken, Hermione breathed deeply, willing herself to be calm. She could see that Asher was about to run, and against her own instinct to flee, she seized and held her tightly. "I'm sorry," she said, her heart persistently pounding for her to run screaming. "I really am. I didn't know how bad it was. I'm sorry. Please don't leave."

Asher held as still as she could, aware and ashamed of the hunger still simmering inside of her, and wondering why Hermione hadn't cursed her yet. Stiffly, she said, "I have to take my potion, Hermione. I can't be around you without it." Just as she had feared.

Hermione pulled back and looked as if she was going to smack her. "Ridiculous. You didn't kill me, did you?" Her voice shook despite the stern tone.

"I could have, damnit! I could have, I--" Asher cut herself off before her nerves could make it a mantra. "You don't know how close it was."

"I don't? You've never been on the receiving end of one of those looks, I take it." Hermione shivered involuntarily. "It wasn't you, not really. It's not the you you want to be, if that makes any sense."

Asher gave a laugh that was more of a breath and said, "Actually, yeah. Minerva said something like that to me once. 'Your choices are your cure.' Quoted Dumbledore at me, too." The need in her had faded to a dull ache, and she realized that she and Hermione were still touching. Small victories.

"Look..." Hermione took her hand again. "I won't say that it doesn't scare me, because it does." _You've no idea how much._ "You might be right about needing the potion. I don't know. But.." She struggled a moment, then continued, "I love you. I've been lying to myself about it because it was easier than admitting I loved you and thinking you were this horrible person. But if you were, you'd have killed me just now without another thought, and that doesn't fit with who you are. If I'd really thought it through I would have realized that a lot sooner."

"I love you, too, but I think you knew that." At Hermione's nod, she went on, "I don't blame you for freaking out, really. You have PTSD, Hermione. I know you know what that is, even if most witches wouldn't. Maybe you even suspected you had it."

"I didn't want to suspect," she replied, breaking eye contact. "I've kind of been ignoring it."

"I don't know how. You scream in your sleep, sometimes. Say names. You beg--" Asher couldn't finish that one. It was heartbreaking enough to hear it happen. She saw Hermione flinch and reached out, gently cupping her cheek. "It's not your fault, this reaction. You went through hell. And what I am, what just happened... is not helping."

"I could say the same thing about you, you know."

"Yeah.” Asher's mouth turned in a bitter smile. “I guess we're both screwed up, huh?"

"Definitely." Hermione covered Asher's hand with her own and leaned in, closing her eyes for a moment. "I've really missed this."

Asher smile warmed, became genuine. "Me, too."

They sat there for some time longer, and when they finally were too cold, they headed back to Asher's tower, tentatively holding hands. And when Asher took her potion that night, for the first time it didn't feel like a life sentence. Eventually, they'd work through it, right? They'd figure it out; she had to believe that, or she'd be afraid for the rest of her life. If Hermione could turn around and say she loved her after seeing and feeling what she was, there was a damned good chance. Someday, she'd figure out how to not almost kill the woman she loved, and maybe then she could hope for a lasting happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me four years to write this story-- as I ended up having a writing dry spell that lasted about three years between the beginning and the end-- but I finished it in February. Since then, a sequel has popped up, and I am very hopeful that it will not take me as long to write it. It's about half-done, I think. I'll be posting it up, and I'll make sure it's accessible as a series so you don't have to do too much clicking around to find it. 
> 
> Thank you all, for reading.


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